


The MK-Ultra Affair

by tigeressdion



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: ;), Angst, Developing Relationship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I hope!, M/M, Mind Control, Mutual Pining, Oh also, Shocking I know, Slow Burn, Undercover Missions, aaand thats mission 1 done!, and napoleon and illya dont even realise theyre falling in love at first, as well as to the boys, first chapter is all napoleon jsyk but after that everyone's there, guess what!!!, i can tell u one thing, im focusing on napoleon!!, im not leaving gaby out, in this house we love and respect female characters, ive already written a good starter chunk of this, kind of an AU, next up: the new york affair feat. the mafia!, picks up directly after the movie, she is there and important in her own right, the istanbul affair. done., we'll see where it takes me, will be a thing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-03
Updated: 2019-02-25
Packaged: 2019-05-17 18:22:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 34,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14836832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigeressdion/pseuds/tigeressdion
Summary: If all went according to plan, Solo would wake up tomorrow. Gottlieb's writing had advanced from enthusiastic to almost frenzied. He theorised that the outcome of the experiment would be Solo's willingness to follow CIA orders whilst maintaining the personality and skills that had made him such an attractive asset in the first place- none of the 'robot agents' that Gottlieb was investigating elsewhere. If that went right, Solo could become their most prolific agent.-Something changes after Rudi’s torture, but Napoleon can't quite place what. He carries with him the sensation of deja vu, or the feeling that he's just walked into a room with an intention in mind, only to forget it the moment he crosses the threshold. More disturbing is that the sense of being off-kilter doesn't fade in the hours after Illya rescues him or when Waverly reveals the truth of Gaby’s betrayal.-After Napoleon’s left them, Illya turns to her and says, “there is something the matter with him.”“Do you think so?” Gaby asks, not looking up as she slips the file back into the briefcase. “I think he's just an ass who got bored of hiding it.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> guess who's finally getting around to writing a man from uncle fic with a plot and everything?? this bitch!!  
> i have to thank still-believing-in-fireflies, new-heroes and camacartz on tumblr for reading this for me and giving me lovely support <3  
> this fic is basically what u get when im allowed to read through conspiracy theories and real life cia stuff without adult supervision lmao, good luck!

Greenwich Village, New York

6th November, 1953

 

The trouble with being in a confined space surrounded only by writers and writer wannabes, all of them drunk, is that they're all obsessed with sharing  _ their story  _ or  _ making their voice heard _ or  _ drinking so much that I make Kerouac sound unintelligible. _ It's why Napoleon prefers artists. They'll get drunk with you and stare at their own art in silence for two hours in silence and thank you for it.

 

He's crammed into a corner booth with a group of bohemians watching in silence as they try to crack open a packet of Benzedrine, feeling the scotch in his glass warm up to the room's temperature and listening to the preaching of a few Catholic Workers from a far off corner. It's a familiar sound, and the Irish lilt that weaves through the chatter is welcome. Napoleon shifts, sweeps his eyes over the patrons of the White Horse Tavern and wonders how to escape the booth short of jumping on the table and kicking a few drunks. As he scans, he spots a blond at the bar. She's looking directly at him, which is hardly a surprise, and she crooks a finger at him when he grins.

 

Suddenly inspired, Napoleon stands, abandoning his scotch. "Come on, friend, give me that," he says, taking the Benzedrine from the pliant hands of the man sitting next to him. 

 

The man, dark haired with a square face, slurs something in a voice that rings with a New England accent. Napoleon opens the packet in a moment and hands it back with a fleeting smile.

 

"Would you mind terribly if I slipped out of here?" He asks and the man nods his assent as he and friends shuffle so that Napoleon can leave easily.

 

When he checks, the blond is still looking at him. He grins again and adjusts his collar as he sidles through the crowd to arrive at her side.

 

"Buy you a drink?" 

 

She smiles and drains her glass, maintaining eye contact throughout. Napoleon's mouth momentarily goes dry. "Scotch. Neat."

 

Napoleon swallows and looks at the bartender. "You heard the lady. Two scotches."

  
"What's your name, stranger?" She asks, and Napoleon's sharp ears pick up on the cadence of another New York native. 

 

He grins, holding out his hand. "Merritt Proudfoot. And yourself?"

 

She takes his hand, her grip his delicate, the tips of her fingers brushing against the inside of his wrist. "That's quite a mouthful," she says with a smirk. "Call me Milly LeBlanc. You looked lonely in that corner. That crowd not doing it for you?"

  
Their drinks arrive and Milly releases his hand to take her glass. 

 

"Not at all," Napoleon admits. "Your company seemed so much more welcoming."

  
Milly winks. "We'll see."

* * *

 

Dizzying hours later, they stumble through the door to Milly's apartment, his arm wound around her waist, her lipstick smeared on his neck and shirt collar. 

 

"You want another drink?" Milly asks, still breathless from laughing. "I've got wine," she singsongs.

 

"Absolutely." Napoleon scans the apartment. He gathers that it's small, made cosy with a couch and homely embroidered cushions as a centrepiece to the living room, made Milly's by the film posters hung on the wall. "'A Streetcar Named Desire', huh?" He comments as he settles on the couch. "Heavy stuff."

 

"You seen it?" Milly asks as she re-enters. At some point she's kicked off her shoes, and she pushes her feet against his thigh when she curls up next to him.

 

Napoleon thinks vaguely back to ducking into a cinema in Chicago to avoid the local police just as Brando-as-Stanley pulls off his shirt and grins. "Seen enough." He leans forward to clink their glasses together and has a sip. "This is good? French?"

  
Milly nods, smiling. "I'm impressed you can tell. Guys who hang around the White Horse have usually ruined their palate with whiskey."

 

"Milly." Napoleon pauses, blinks. His vision blurs for a second and he shakes his head. "I think I've had enough," he says with a chuckle. "As you can see, I am not that kind of guy." He attempts what he hopes is a charming grin. 

 

The floor sways underneath him as Napoleon looks at Milly again, but he sees enough to watch her stand up and push him back onto the couch. "No," she says. "You're dumber."

 

A pang of confusion twists his stomach as Napoleon frowns in offence. "What?"

 

Instead of answering him, Milly walks toward a door that Napoleon had assumed was the bedroom. "You can come out now," she calls, her voice suddenly distorted and harsh, echoing off the inside of Napoleon's skull.

 

A man emerges, the air around him shaking with each step and Napoleon shrinks back until the man's eyes land on him and they both stop moving, Napoleon paralysed and his heart pounding.

 

"Holy shit." The man's voice sends shock waves through Napoleon's body, filling the entire room. "Delilah, that's Napoleon fucking Solo."

 

His chest feels unbearably tight, and as he looks around the room for an escape he realises that the small room is growing smaller. The walls slide inward and the ceilings drops suddenly. His vision, full of flashes and crimson blood and black powder, sears white until he is slammed into darkness.

* * *

 

CIA Blacksite, New York

7th November, 1953

 

For Napoleon Solo, waking up to a thumping headache after a night out is nothing new. Waking up handcuffed to a steel chair in a room he doesn't recognise, however, is a novelty. It's dark in the corners of the room, grey-walled, with a single strip light in the centre of the ceiling above Napoleon and a metal table in front of him.

 

Moments later, a door behind him clicks open and sharp footsteps follow. A man enters his field of vision. His skin is pale and gaunt, a line worn between his eyebrows. He removes his hat and sets it on the table, revealing mousy brown hair, already thinning and greying although he can only be in his early forties. His stride is confident, his eyes shrewd and narrowed at Napoleon, who grins at him despite his burning eyes and the woolly feeling of his mouth.

 

"Well, you're not who I came with."

 

The man's mouth doesn't so much as twitch. He drops a file on the table, and even upside down Napoleon can make out the eagle and 'C.I.A' emblazoned on the cover. His stomach drops through the floor, the blood turns icy in his veins, but he keeps grinning. 

 

"If this is about the beer I stole ten years ago, I can pay for it."

 

The man continues to study him in silence, but when Napoleon's grin shows no sign of fading, he flips open the file and starts talking. "Napoleon Solo, I am Adrian Sanders. As you've probably guessed, I'm with the CIA and you are under arrest." He pulls out a wad of papers as he lets the fact sink in. "We'll be charging you with robbery, handling stolen goods, and serial thefts of art and antiquities." Sanders stares him down, the lines around his eyes hard and unyielding. "I hope the last two years have been worth it, because we're currently looking at a fifteen year long sentence for you."

 

Sixteen years trapped in Hell’s Kitchen. Seven years in the army. And technically six years of theft and mixing with English high society.  _ So much for the CIA's unparalleled intelligence. _ Overall, it didn't seem to be a bad run for the son of an Irish janitor and a Basque immigrant.

 

Napoleon looks at Sanders. He notes how he's still being watched, how Sanders flicked to a new piece of paper, how the index finger of Sanders' left hand twitched just slightly against it. 

 

"Are you sure that's the only possible outcome?" Napoleon asks, lifting an eyebrow.

  
Sanders' eyes flick between Napoleon and the file. "As it happens, Solo, there's one other option. Remember how fortunate you are to receive this proposal. There is a task-force comprised of four different countries that would very much like to get its hands on you. The CIA is willing to offer you a way out."

 

He sits, and he waits, certain there will be a catch. 

 

"The CIA will suspend your sentence if you come and work for us for fifteen years."

 

Part of him says,  _ that's just as bad _ . Part of him says,  _ that might be worse, who knows what these spooks are up to?  _ But another part of him says,  _ I duped these guys for two years. Escaping them isn't going to be a problem. _

 

"Fine," Napoleon says, and holds up his cuffed hands. "Mind taking these off me? I'll sign now."

 

Sanders sets the majority of the papers from the file in front of him, as though he expected no other result. "Read this first, Solo. It's your contract."

 

He leaves without any of the grandiosity than he entered with. His footsteps are suddenly silent. The door is locked behind him and Napoleon sighs.

 

"I think someone drugged me last night," he says to no one in particular as he opens the contract. "And now I'm going to work for them."

* * *

 

In the corridor, Adrian points to an agent outside the door. "We've got Solo. Tell White and have him meet me in my office, then tell the Director."

 

The agent nods and hurries away.

* * *

 

"You don't get to give me orders, Sanders," George White growls as he stalks into Sanders' office, slamming the door behind him. "Just who the hell do you think you are? And now you're going to take all the credit for the Napoleon Solo case, too?"

  
Adrian raises his eyebrows. "Have a seat, Colonel."

 

"We should have dosed him before you talked to him," George continued, pacing back and forth in the office. "We would have an exponential amount of blackmail available. You should have listened to me." He jabs a finger at Adrian. "What do you know about any of this?"

 

"More than enough, Colonel." Adrian pushes a file across his desk. "Take a look at that. I think you'll appreciate the ideas we have for Mr Solo. You already know the work of Dr Cameron and Dr Sargent, I assume."

 

George glares at him, but snatches up the file and scans through it, tension ebbing from him as he does. 

 

"Very interesting," he says, continuing to flip through the papers. "Deep sleep treatment for Solo. Very interesting indeed.”

  
Adrian leans back in his chair, satisfied. "Of course, the way we'd be using this influence is so far untested, but Director Dulles and Dr Gottlieb agree with me that the only asset we stand to lose is similarly untested. Whether this fails or succeeds, we stand to only to win."

 

George nods, his thin lips stretching into a sneer. "I'll have my boys whip something up."

* * *

 

Napoleon misses his apartment. His room in the CIA's base may as well as have been a prison cell with its claustrophobic size and oppressive atmosphere. The agent who had escorted him there assured him he could return to his apartment once the paperwork had gone through, but Napoleon knows a lie when he hears one (the Milly-Delilah incident was an anomaly). He's sitting on the edge of a bed that would have been equally fitting in a cave when the door opens. He also misses being able to lock doors from the inside.

 

A man steps inside. He's smooth-faced, hair combed over to the side, wearing an ill-fitting but expensive suit, and walking with a limp. Napoleon immediately doesn't trust him; validates his suspicion when he catches the cutting chemical smell the man carries with him; and is assured of it when the man opens his briefcase to remove a syringe and attach a hypodermic needle.

 

"Mr Solo," he says, observing him over the frames of his glasses. "I am Dr Gottlieb. With your permission, I'm here to vaccinate you." He pushes the needle into a vial of clear liquid and draws it into the syringe slowly. "Your work with the CIA will take you to much more removed locations than you previous work. Trust me when I say this is necessary."

 

_ Stutterer,  _ Napoleon guesses from the hesitation and small, nervous breath Gottlieb takes before each new sentence. 

 

"I'm not sure I can do that, Doctor," Napoleon says with a tight smile. "And you can't act without my consent."

 

Gottlieb shrugs. "Very well." But he makes no move to replace the syringe, instead he turns his head away from Napoleon. "Guards!"

 

Napoleon jumps to his feet, facing the door and Gottlieb. There are no available weapons in the room; he's already checked. There's only the needle in Gottlieb's hand. Throwing caution to the wind, Napoleon lunges forward, missing the needle but slamming a fist into Gottlieb's chin. He's knocked backwards, but before Napoleon cam follow through the door crashes open and two burly men are blocking him. One has a pistol trained on him, the other brandishes a baton. Napoleon's back hits a wall.  _ I may have misjudged this one _ .

 

"Restrain- ah." Gottlieb's breaths are coming quick and shallow now, and a vein in his forehead has started throbbing. 

 

Napoleon has to take what small victories he can.

 

"Restrain- Restrain- Restrain  _ him _ ," Gottlieb says, still clutching the syringe. 

 

The men holster their weapons and advance on Napoleon, and as much as he struggles and swears and tries to appeal to the camaraderie of having served in the war, one locks him in a chokehold and the other grabs his arms. 

 

Napoleon kicks out when Gottlieb approaches again, but receives a punch to the gut instead and doubles over, winded.

 

"Roll up his sleeve. Left arm."

 

One brute tugs at the cuff so roughly that the button is torn off, and pulls the sleeve up so that Napoleon hears a rip.

 

"That's a Sulka, you cu-" 

 

He's punched again, and the insult is cut off into a wheeze. Gottlieb walks forward, his limp rendering each step irregular, and appears in Napoleon's periphery. Cold hands grip Napoleon's forearm, and he feels the needle jammed into his arm. 

 

" _ Fuck _ ."

 

For almost half a minute, nothing happens. Elation lifts Napoleon's heart and he wonders how he can still escape, until he feels a buzzing flood up his arm and the room gives way to black.

* * *

 

CIA Blacksite, New York

11th November, 1953

 

The report from Gottlieb is, put simply, inspiring. Reading it, Adrian feels sure their scheme will work. Gottlieb has detailed the procedure used for Solo's treatment so far and the plans for the second week, and Adrian can hardly believe what the man's capable of. 

 

They began by playing a recording of a cigarette being tapped rhythmically against its case for hours at a time. After three days, they interspersed it with a recording of Adrian stating his name and position above Solo as his handler. The aim is to create a process that will remind Solo of his programming, as it were, to make him compliant with whatever the CIA asks of him via Adrian.

* * *

 

CIA Blacksite, New York

18th November, 1953

 

This week's report from Gottlieb is even more enthused than the last. He's been playing slightly more complex recordings to the unconscious agent, all from Adrian, regarding loyalty to the CIA above all else. Gottlieb had also suggested just a hint of dehumanisation. Halfway through the week, he had added a recording of how Solo would be addressed- never by his first name. Adrian thought it was sheer genius.

 

Dulles had advised against programming Solo to be loyal to so broad a concept as the West, or even America. Adrian agreed. Solo was their agent and their experiment, linking him to anything else was too much of a risk.

* * *

 

CIA Blacksite, New York

24th November, 1953

 

If all went according to plan, Solo would wake up tomorrow. Gottlieb's writing had advanced from enthusiastic to almost frenzied. He theorised that the outcome of the experiment would be Solo's willingness to follow CIA orders whilst maintaining the personality and skills that had made him such an attractive asset in the first place- none of the 'robot agents' that Gottlieb was investigating elsewhere. If that went right, Solo could become their most prolific agent. 

* * *

 

CIA Blacksite, New York

26th November, 1953

 

Apparently they'd sedated him. Apparently there had been complications due to the drugs already in his system. Apparently they'd had to keep him sedated for three weeks in order to keep him alive. Apparently that warranted him having a polygraph test the day after he's woken up.

 

On the bright side, the test is in a far more comfortable room than anything the CIA had to offer before. The couch is leather and, if anything, too comfortable- he doesn't like how he's sinking into the cushions. In general, the room has the atmosphere of a tenured professor's study. Everything seems to be made of polished oak or leather, there are books and papers scattered around a desk at the front of the room by a window that looks out onto Washington Square. Also, the man observing the polygraph test is wearing a tweed blazer with elbow patches. That, in particular, Napoleon finds very upsetting.

 

"Comfortable?" The man asks, and Napoleon cocks an eyebrow at him.

 

"You're monitoring my blood pressure and respiration rates, Dale," Napoleon says flatly, watching him squirm somewhat. "Have a guess."

  
"Right." Dale opens what Napoleon assumes is the script of questions he has to ask. "Your name?"

  
"Napoleon Solo."

  
Dale nods and makes a note. "Your age?"

  
"Twenty three."

 

"Who are you loyal to?"

  
Napoleon frowns. "The CIA." Isn't it obvious? Had Dale not looked at who his current employers are?

 

"Will you serve the CIA to the best of your ability? Yes or no."

 

"Yes." Napoleon rubs at his left forearm, still frowning. "How many more of these are there?"

 

Dale pauses his writing to look at Napoleon and smile, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Not many. We've got the important things from you now."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the second of many, lads

 

Rome, Italy

21st May, 1963

 

In the end, he doesn't kill Illya. It wasn't a direct order, so he doesn't feel any guilt about it. However, he also doesn't feel any guilt for burning the disc. After ten years of unerring loyalty to the CIA and Sanders, of striving to be the best agent he can be, Napoleon can't help but feel unsettled.

 

The biggest shock, the event that tells him that something is _wrong_ , something is wrong with _him_ , is Waverly telling them that they’re a team. Illya’s no longer with the KGB, Gaby’s no longer with MI6, and Napoleon’s no longer with the CIA. He waits to feel offended, even outraged, any of the emotions he's felt in the last ten years when he or someone else has tried to convince him to defect. Instead, a sense of relief washes over him so strongly that he turns away from the others and grips the railing of the balcony.

 

His mind cycles through the same thoughts that hit him ten years ago in a similar situation. _This could be just as bad. Who knows what these spooks are up to?_ But then, another thought hits him.

 

_What would motivate you to become the CIA’s most effective agent?_

 

Illya, it seems, has been a damned sight more insightful than Napoleon initially gave him credit for.

 

Waverly’s left, apparently one with a proclivity for theatrics. Gaby and Illya, he assumes, are regarding each other awkwardly. No doubt their holiday romance is a lot less fun now that they're spending the foreseeable future together.

 

But Napoleon can't shake the deja vu that's looming over him. He feels, for all the world, as though he's twenty three again, his hands tied with no way out. Only- and this is new- rather, it's _old_ , it's an impulse he's repressed unknowingly for a decade and he welcomes it back.

 

He's looking for a way out. With a crashing certainty, Napoleon knows what he's going to do.

 

_I've got to dupe the CIA._

 

“Cowboy?” Illya says, just as Gaby says: “Solo?”

 

They look at each other hesitantly, each on the edge of a stilted apology, when Solo finally turns around to face them. He grins, which counters the few minutes he just spent in silence. Illya makes an informed guess that he'd been attempting the reconcile the idea that the CIA would actually hand him off to another agency. It's unsettling for him too, and it would be for Gaby, had she not probably been informed of the plans before either of them.

 

“Yes, team?” Solo looks between them expectantly. He calls them a team, but it's a word loaded with scepticism and irony, perhaps with an edge of hope.

 

Gaby takes the floor. “Waverly gave me our tickets and the briefing on the mission.” She gestures to the briefcase that he had left behind. “We should go through it now. The flight is in three hours.”

 

She looks nervous, Illya thinks, as she takes a steadying breath and picks up the case. He steps forward to clear the table for the case whilst Solo watches, and she thanks him with a slight nod and a quick smile.

 

Gaby opens the case and spreads a file of papers about the table, and even Solo moves so that he can have a cursory glance. The wry chuckle that follows from him turns both Illya and Gaby’s heads.

 

“Wasp?” Solo asks, shaking his head. “You can't be serious. They're a bunch of nutjobs with more ideas than power. What's the phrase that Wells used? ‘Undisciplined dreamers’.”

 

Gaby sets her shoulders and Illya feels a surge of pride as she stares down Solo. “Well, Waverly thinks they're enough of a threat that they need to be dealt with. If you want to argue with your new boss, then fine, I don't care.” She picks up a file and narrows her eyes at him. “But, in case you're interested, this is the mission.

 

“Wasp have become increasingly active in Turkey since 1959, when Turkey applied for associate membership of the European Economic Community. For the last four years, this has not been seen as a high level threat and so the MAH, Turkey’s National Security Service, has been left to deal with them. However, the threat level has been raised as negotiations appear to be heading towards a treaty very soon. Mehmet Naci Perkel, director of the MAH, has requested that we discover the source of Wasp activity, which has been narrowed down to Istanbul, and eliminate it.” Gaby levels a look at Solo. “Any questions?”

 

Solo shrugs delicately so as not to disturb the line of his suit. “I'll need a few hours for shopping. Turkey’s humid, isn't it? I'll need a fabric that breathes. Probably chambray; it's so much more durable than cotton.”

 

Gaby grits her teeth. “Questions about the case, Solo.”

 

“Oh.” Solo raises his eyebrows in mock innocence. “Do we have covers?”

 

“Yes.” Gaby rifles through the files. “I am Mona Orlov, a Swedish socialite travelling with my husband Dimitri in an attempt to recapture the lost spark of our marriage.”

 

Illya feels his ears burn and scowls, particularly when he notes Solo smirking in his periphery.

 

“Art imitates life, hm?” Solo says, flicking his eyes between the two of them, his tone more mocking than teasing and Illya realises with a jolt that this is not entirely like him.

 

Solo’s made clear over the past week, not even that, that he can put on any mask and play any role he wants. But he's not been purposefully cruel, not since the verbal sparring between him and Illya in West Germany, and never to Gaby. Something's shifted, but Illya can't tell what.

 

“And who am I?” Solo’s asking Gaby, who looks like she has a number of things she'd like to say.

 

Instead, she gathers herself and looks back at the file. “You are Robert García. Spanish-American dealer in antiquities.” She doesn't allow time for any more comments, carrying on in brisk tones. “We will be staying in the Pera Palace Hotel. It's near the British, Russian and American consulates, so…” Gaby trails off, then clears her throat and resumes. “If our respective agencies wish to contact us, they can do so easily.” She pulls three tickets from the file and holds one out to Solo. “Here's your ticket. Be at Fiumici airport in time for the flight.”

 

Solo gives the ticket a brief glance before slipping it in an inner pocket of his blazer. “I'll see you both in Istanbul,” he says, walking away, only to pause and spin on his heel to look back at them. “Where's U.N.C.L.E based, by the way?”

 

“New York,” Gaby says over her shoulder.

 

“You should feel right at home, Cowboy,” Illya says, and only he notices a strange expression cross Solo’s face, chased away by a fleeting smile.

 

“That I shall.”

* * *

 

After Napoleon’s left them, Illya turns to her and says, “there is something the matter with him.”

 

“Do you think so?” Gaby asks, not looking up as she slips the file back into the briefcase. “I think he's just an ass who got bored of hiding it.”

 

Illya doesn't reply, and when she looks at him he's watching her. “Alright, I don't think that,” she admits, rolling her eyes. “But whatever his problem is, he has to be over himself by the time we're in Istanbul.”

 

He nods, but his expression is shuttered and Gaby can't tell what he's thinking. She knows he doesn't hate her, knows they've been through too much in five short days to hate each other, but she's keenly aware that they're going to have to work hard to trust each other. “Come on,” she says. “We need to work on our cover.”

 

Illya’s expression softens at the edges, perhaps grateful for her professionalism if nothing else, and nods. “After you,” he says, picking up the briefcase for her.

 

It's not where they were, but it's a start, and Gaby smiles to herself as she leads the way.

* * *

 

At least the seats are first class. The stewardesses are beautiful and charming. The scotch is about as good as he could hope. In an ideal world, that would be enough to stop the thoughts and theories wheeling about in his head. Napoleon tries to focus on the fact that he has three new suits, two new teammates and one new intelligence agency.

 

Instead, all he can think about is the conclusion he reached a minute before he left Illya and Gaby at the hotel. He needs to see his file. Whatever is going on with him, and he's starting to get a headache just thinking about it, must be explained in his file. If it’s not, then his file has to be a good starting place.

 

The only trouble is, his file’s in America. There's definitely a copy in Langley, but Napoleon’s only been there a few times and the planning to break in could take months alone. He's certain that Sanders has a copy in his New York office, the layout of which he knows like the back of his hand. But the people there know him, and he's far more likely to be remarked upon.

 

He only needs a few minutes to read his file. He's got a talent for memorising the written word and once he has he can note it down at his apartment and work from there. It's as much of a plan as Napoleon can consider at this point, as he draws closer to Istanbul by the minute, and he has to focus his attention to the matter at hand.

* * *

 

Pera District, Istanbul

 

That night, Napoleon doesn't sleep well. He means to explore the city in the evening, but his headache is grown so overpowering that it's all he can do to hang up his suit before he crawls into bed.

 

That night, he dreams.

 

They are frighteningly clear, more like memories. He is in an apartment with a beautiful blond woman, but she's put something in his drink. A man enters, he is rotund with a thick neck and cruel eyes and he calls Napoleon by his name even though they have never met before.

 

He is in a CIA holding cell, being held back by two guards whilst he fights for his life against a spectacled man who pushes a needle into his arm so hard that it _hurts_.

 

He is waking up after a deep, deep sleep and he doesn't recognise the room he's in or the people around him but they tell him that they work for the CIA, that he's in a safehouse, that he works for the CIA, that he's safe _because he's with them_ and that he's safe _because the CIA looks after their own_ and that he's safe _because he's one of them_. And he believes them and trusts them but when he wakes up shaking and nauseous with his head screaming in pain Napoleon realises he's been lied to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> u see i said the whole gang would be here  
> one of these days waverly will make an appearance ;)  
> as usual, please do leave a kudos or comment, i love hearing from you guys so much!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just want to say a massive thank you to everyone who left a kudos, comment or bookmark!! it means so much to me and the support from you guys has been incredible!

Pera District, Istanbul

22nd May, 1963

 

They spend the day exploring the city. By the time Napoleon wakes, Gaby and Illya have already left. He picks the lock to their room and finds a journal on a coffee table, open on a page that notes they are going to explore the Grand Bazaar that morning in Gaby’s handwriting. Napoleon is impressed by her thinking and makes a mental note to comment on it when he sees her next.

 

Napoleon spends his time scouting out the Pera district, mapping out alleys and escape routes, and wishing he spoke Turkish. He spies backgammon games being played by old men at nearly every cafe and resists the urge to join in, unsure that he could keep up with them as it is. For the afternoon he heads to the Archaeological Museums, largely to maintain his cover. It's enlightening, but largely useless for the mission. 

 

When he arrives back in the Pera district that evening, he notices a number of locals gathering outside a few of the consulates. Outside the British consulate is a young man giving a rousing speech in Turkish to a rowdy group. Despite not understanding, Napoleon hangs back and watches for a few minutes until a guard emerges and shoos the man away, but the group remains. Curious, but overwhelmed by the need to check in with Gaby and Illya and get out of the cooling night air, Napoleon moves on.

  
  


“The MAH has been in touch,” Gaby says when Napoleon slips inside her and Illya’s room. She has files spread out in front of her, presumably from the MAH, and Napoleon joins her on the couch.

 

“Where's Peril?” He asks, picking up a sheaf of photographs and thumbing through them.

 

“Making the most of the cold,” she replies, tilting her head towards the open balcony doors.

 

Napoleon leans back to look, and finds himself momentarily stunned. Illya’s standing with his back to the room, wearing a white linen shirt and navy linen slacks and looking almost relaxed. He shifts, sensing Napoleon’s gaze, the muscles in his back moving as he turns and stares back. His hair is lifted slightly by a passing breeze and Napoleon swallows, telling himself that his breath is hard to catch because of the warning pang of a returning headache, nothing more.

 

“Good day, Cowboy?” Illya asks as he enters the room, coming to sit in a chair opposite Napoleon and Gaby.

 

“I'll tell you about it later,” Napoleon says absently. “I want to hear what our friend from the MAH had to say first.”

 

Gaby takes the photographs that Napoleon had forgotten about from his hands and lays them out one by one. “Most importantly, he gave us a list of prime suspects.” She points at the first, showing a man in his mid forties with a strong jaw and a statuesque physique. “This is Berat Ahmet Kaya. He's a member of parliament and perhaps one of the strongest oppositions to Turkey’s membership of the EEC due to his belief that Turkey should remain as neutral as it did in the Second World War.” 

 

The next photograph showed an older woman, she was dressed expensively, adorned with jewellery and wearing a loose headscarf over her hair. “Azra Zeynep Demir. One of the richest women in Turkey since her husband died after going to fight with the Allies in the war. The MAH suspect her of being a major sponsor of Wasp.”

 

Gaby taps the next photograph, about to speak, but Napoleon picks it up from under her fingers. “I know this guy. Agent Ozdemir from the MAH.”

 

Illya’s frowning at him, probably wondering how Napoleon’s managed to ruin the mission in less than a day. “How do you know him?”

 

“The CIA funds the MAH,” Napoleon says, quirking an eyebrow at Illya’s expression. “Nothing nefarious, Peril, we just ran into each other once at Langley. Sanders has his fingers in lots of pies, and we were both waiting to see him.”

 

“This makes things complicated,” Illya says, as though otherwise they'd have taken down Wasp in a matter of minutes.

 

Gaby purses her lips. “It's not too bad,” she says, and Napoleon shoots Illya a smug look. “We’ll just keep you two separate. I thought you'd be best focusing your attention on Kaya anyway.”

 

“Why, so we can bond over the good old war days?” Napoleon asks, scanning the dossier on Kaya. “Or because he has a passion for art?”

 

He glances up in time to see Gaby and Illya exchange a look. “I'm feeling outnumbered,” he remarks lightly. “What is it?”

 

“Kaya is a homosexual,” Illya says after a heavy pause. “We thought you could seduce him and earn his trust.”

 

Napoleon feels immediate wariness squeeze his chest, but covers it with a sly smile. “Someone's been showing you the classified section of my file.” He breathes deeply, frowning as his headache intensifies. “Could I trouble you for a glass of water?” He asks, barely catching the look of concern that Gaby shoots him as she stands up.

 

“Another headache?” Illya asks.

 

“My own fault,” Napoleon says, the lie slipping easily off his tongue. “Barely had a drop of water all day.” He thanks Gaby as she presents him with a glass of water, and presses it to his forehead for momentary relief.  “Carry on then. I'm seducing Kaya. What are you two doing?”

 

“I'll be working on Demir. She and Mona are from similar backgrounds, they should get on like a house on fire,” Gaby says with a smile, and Napoleon feels a surge of warmth for her and her enthusiasm.

 

Illya gives a slight nod. “Our MAH contact is going to try to orchestrate a meaning between myself and Ozdemir. He is supposed to be involved with weapons smuggling operation and Dimitri wants to make money quickly. If first deal works, Ozdemir should float idea of investing in Wasp.”

 

“Action stations tomorrow, then?” Napoleon asks, glancing between them.

 

Gaby nods, pulling a bundle of notes in her handwriting toward her. “Illya and I will have dinner at a restaurant Demir favours tomorrow night and hopefully have a chance to talk with her.”

 

“I'll work on plans for Kaya in my room,” Napoleon says, gathering his file and standing up. “Good thinking with the journal by the way,” he adds over his shoulder to Gaby, who smiles at him. “Very smooth.”

* * *

 

He dreams again that night.

 

He's on the first mission he ever undertook for the CIA and he is impossibly angry. He's trapped on enemy ground, surrounded by a private army, and the back-up he was promised is nowhere to be found.

 

He's standing in front of Sanders, ranting for all he's worth about how he _ could have died _ and  _ if you won't hold up your end I see no reason to stay _ and there's an agent standing in the corner tapping a cigarette against its case and Sanders is reminding him of  _ just who's in charge around here _ and that  _ you are subordinate, Solo _ and that  _ you are loyal to the CIA  _ and that  _ you will not question me again. _

 

He wakes up in a cold sweat, trembling and wishing for all the world he wasn't alone in the room.

* * *

 

Things proceed slowly, much like the Turkey-EEC negotiations. The mission is nothing like the Rome Affair, and Napoleon thinks Waverly probably assigned it to them for that very reason. Rome was a crash course in enforced trust, and by Napoleon’s estimates it worked rather well. He keeps a tally of who's saved whose life, and it's fairly even. He saved Illya from drowning; Illya saved him from a slow, painful death; they both saved Gaby from Alexander Vinciguerra. By all accounts, it's Gaby’s turn to save them now.

 

As a team, they decide to stage a meeting to kickstart growing friendship between their covers, for the sake of Napoleon not having to pick the lock to their room every time they need to discuss the mission. It's funny, acting so much more familiarly with them in public than he ever would in private. They function fairly smoothly now. At least none of them are lying about their basic motivations, even Napoleon.

 

The heat between Gaby and Illya seems to have cooled somewhat as well. Now, when Napoleon observes them together they act in much the way they did the evening after the Rome Grand Prix. They bicker, Gaby amused and Illya frustrated until he catches her smiling and looks away to hide his own good humour. They're competitive, too. Illya quietly and Gaby loudly, but since they all know she's a spy as well, it's a far more level playing field. Once, on a night when he and Gaby have had a tad too much to drink and Illya’s tired of chess, Napoleon feels an irrational twinge of jealousy as Gaby and Illya make bets on whose target will come clean first. He watches Illya, and thinks that was nearly their game. 

 

Gaby and Demir’s friendship is progressing in leaps and bounds, Illya successfully received the weapons shipment from Ozdemir and had it transported to an U.N.C.L.E operative for further evidence, and Napoleon sparked an association with Kaya after running into him at an exclusive underground bar.

 

Gaby keeps Waverly informed of everything that's going on, and Napoleon wonders if it even makes sense that he's conducting the honeypot part of the mission. In the admittedly few times he met Waverly, Napoleon didn't gauge him as the kind of man to relinquish control of himself, but if Gaby’s laughter on the end of the phone is anything to go by, she has them both in fits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bit of a quiet one, little bit of filler and exposition, i know, but the next chapter has much more fun dialogue (at least i think so (; )


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lads its been a while since my last update and i can only apologise- a levels are overwhelming esp when youre proactively Not Revising for them ;))))  
> that said, here we are, hope you enjoy it!

Pera District, Istanbul

3rd June, 1963

 

“Hand over your money, Kuryakin, because Azra is going to try to make me a member of Wasp,” Gaby announces as she enters their room, looking only mildly disappointed to find Solo isn't there to revel in her victory.

 

Illya sighs, long-suffering, amusement tugging at his mouth as he reaches for his wallet. “Congratulations, little chop shop girl. What did she tell you?”

 

“She didn't exactly say that word for word,” Gaby admits as she pours herself a glass of wine. “But I said that it was inspiring to meet such an independently powerful woman, and she said that she sees me as a younger version of herself. Then, she said that she has a group of business associates and close personal friends she would like me to meet.” She curls up on the couch and accepts Illya’s money with a flourish. “I'm going to meet them with her tomorrow,” she says, making a show of counting the money.

 

Illya nods and begins to stand. “In that case, we should leave a note for Solo to meet with us. We need to plan-"

 

The door to their room opens and Solo swans in, brushing a hand over his hair and angling his head to glance in a mirror on the wall opposite. “Peril, Gaby, unfortunately your little bet is now moot. Mr. Kaya just informed me of a  _ political meeting _ I should attend with him tomorrow.” Finally deigning to look at them, Solo’s eyes flick between Illya and Gaby. “What is it?”

 

“Gaby’s target already invited her to a Wasp meeting,” Illya says, fighting to keep his voice level.

 

A frown flits across Solo’s face and his eyebrows draw together as he looks at Gaby, who sits, waving the wad of notes at him. She doesn't look at all sympathetic.

 

There’s a beat where the atmosphere in the room is almost tense, even though Illya knows that Solo’s irritation isn't genuine (everything about the man is a performance), but seconds later he grins.

 

“Why on earth didn't you say?” He asks. “This is a cause for celebration.” He points at Gaby. “Drink?” Turns to Illya. “Drink?” 

 

Gaby holds up her glass, and Solo gives a solemn nod. “I understand. Refill it is.”

 

As he fixes three more drinks, Illya waits for him to stop talking so he can remind him that he  _ doesn't drink on missions. _

 

“This is just fantastic, Gaby. What's the plan? Obviously you should go with Mrs Demir, but should I still go with Kaya? They may already know that our covers are acquainted, that could complicate things. If Ozdemir’s there, I certainly shouldn't go. Will Peril and I take a backseat? Speaking of, Peril, do sit down.” Solo’s handed out the drinks and sat in the chair that Illya had occupied, and the look on Solo’s face makes it clear that he's aware of the fact.

 

Illya clenches the champagne glass that Solo had presented him with, and sits next to Gaby, who raises her eyebrows at him.

 

“Ozdemir will likely be there,” Illya grinds out. “We should wait as backup.”

 

“Will Kaya be able to handle your rejection?” Gaby asks, tilting her head at Solo.

 

He tilts his head back, a condescending edge to his smile. “Gaby. It's me. I'll tell him one of the museum pieces I'm interested in suddenly became available to view privately. He’ll understand.”

 

“You will have to wear a bug and tracker again,” Illya says to Gaby. “Do you still have the ring?”

 

Gaby nods. “Of course. Make sure you're recording, not just listening.”

 

“Of course,” Illya echoes. “This will be purely reconnaissance and intelligence gathering, yes? Even if Demir takes you directly to Wasp base, we wait until we know we have MAH backup to support us in eliminating the threat.”

 

“About that,” Solo says, and Illya barely resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Couldn't we avoid the initial mess of an armed assault and simply… break in to the base once we know where it is? We can be in and out, no mess and no chance for them to hide anything important.”

 

“And no way for them to be alerted by gunshots and heavy-booted soldiers,” Gaby says, nodding. “Then, we send in MAH forces afterwards to do what they like.”

 

“Exactly.”

 

Illya looks between the two of them, and realises that it's the way their thoughts align almost instantaneously (and he suspects it'll reach that point in time) that allowed them to evade him in East Germany. “That could work,” he admits, slowly. “But first, we wait. Gaby has to learn what she can tomorrow. They may tell you very little,” he says, addressing her directly. “We do not know how much longer this mission will continue.”

 

“Don't say that, Peril. I'm learning to like you in linen,” Solo says, and Illya finally does roll his eyes.

 

“Then you will be disappointed very soon,” he snaps back, and hears Solo sigh in response.

 

“Well,” Solo says to the room at large, the rustle of material announcing his standing up. “I had better telephone dear old Kaya. No point in postponing disappointment. Confirm your course of action with Waverly, then let me know.” He moves, as ever, unerringly quietly out of the room.

 

Gaby finishes her champagne and commandeers Illya’s glass, raising it toward him in a toast. “To the best spy in the room.” She takes a sip. “Me.”

* * *

 

Nişantaşı, Şişli District, Istanbul

4th June, 1963

 

“Peril.”

 

Illya shifts, adjusting his headset.

 

“Peril.”

 

He alters the frequency of his radio receiver by a fraction, a furrow appearing between his eyebrows as he focuses.

 

“Peril.”

 

He turns, double-checking that the recording equipment is turned on and functioning correctly.

 

“Peril.”

 

Illya glares at Solo, tapping his headset pointedly. To his shock, Solo leans forward and lifts the headset away from his ear.

 

“Peril, I can still see Gaby waiting in the cafe. Azra isn't here. You're not listening to anything. Would you be so kind as to pay me attention for one moment?” His piece said, Solo releases the headset, allowing it to clip Illya on the ear.

 

“What is it?” Illya says through gritted teeth, clenching his jaw when Solo smirks.

 

“Do you think we're always going to be sent to such lovely neighbourhoods with U.N.C.L.E? The CIA once had me hide in a sewer. Almost quit on the spot.”

 

Illya stares at him in silence. A minute passes. Then another. Solo doesn't stop grinning the grin that he thinks is  _ so charming _ just because it allegedly earned him a free night at The Ritz. 

 

“Demir has arrived,” Illya finally says, replacing his headset and returning his attention to his equipment.

 

Solo picks up his binoculars again and looks out the window, nodding slightly when he sees that Illya is right. “I have other questions,” he says after a moment, his tone infuriatingly casual. “If you didn't care for that one.”

 

They're in a tiny one room apartment used mainly for storage above one of the most glamorous luxury shops in Istanbul, in keeping with the atmosphere of the Nişantaşı quarter. Illya is sat on an overly decorative chair with his equipment on a futon, an act which earned him a dirty look from Solo. As a result, Solo had been forced to dust off the windowsill and perch on it like he's posing for a photograph. It is, Illya thinks, a form of torture that even the KGB could not concoct.

 

He keeps silent, hoping it will deter Solo from any more inane chatter. If they're going to be a team for the foreseeable future, he doesn't want to encourage bad habits.

* * *

 

Azra arrives just as Gaby is getting bothered by the heat- in the time they've been in Istanbul, the weather has only grown warmer and more humid. She places her cup of ayran on the cable and wipes the froth from her lips as she stands to greet Azra. 

 

“Mona!” Azra pulls her into a light hug, kissing her on the cheek and pulling back only slightly for Gaby to do the same. “It is wonderful to see you, my darling. I am wearing the perfume you bought me, can you tell?”

 

Gaby can tell, wondering briefly exactly how much Azra applied, but she laughs and takes the other woman’s hand. “Thank you again for inviting me to your gathering,” she says, her voice a little breathless. 

 

“You're welcome, dear, of course. Now, sit with me a moment,” Azra says, claiming a chair at Gaby’s table for her own and Gaby follows easily.

 

“Shouldn't we be on our way?” Gaby asks, smiling as soon as Azra laughs.

 

“There's no rush, dear,” Azra says, beckoning a waiter. “You Europeans, you all need to learn to slow down.”

* * *

 

“What are they talking about?” Solo asks, still looking through the binoculars.

 

Illya glances at him, but the question seems genuine enough, no hint of impending triviality. “Taking a holiday together,” he says after a moment. “Demir wants to take Gaby to Cairo.”

 

There's an amused twitch to Solo’s mouth. “Dimitri should keep a watchful eye on his wife. She could quite easily be spirited away.”

 

Illya frowns slightly at the implication. “You don't think-"

 

Solo grins. “Certainly. There's many an innocent young girl been led astray by an older woman.”

 

Illya considers it, and decides Solo is joking. “Then we don't need to worry about Gaby, do we, Cowboy?”

 

There's a beat, and then Solo turns the full force of his grin on Illya. “Why, Peril-"

 

Illya shushes him, pointing at his headset. “Busy.”

* * *

 

Half an hour later, Azra pauses the conversation to glance at Gaby’s watch. “I think it is time to go now,” she says, leaving money on the table to pay for their drinks and slipping an arm around Gaby’s waist as she stands. “You must understand, we are an eclectic group,” she continues as they wind their way through the crowds. “It is why I didn't invite your darling husband. I thought it would go more smoothly if I introduced you first.”

 

Gaby forces a light laugh. She had told Azra of the troubles between Mona and Dimitri, and was unsurprised the other woman saw fit to take advantage of them. “I couldn't agree more. For a great businessman, Dimitri is no charmer.”

 

Azra smiles, squeezing Gaby’s side playfully. “I knew you'd understand.”

* * *

 

“I'll follow them,” Solo says, setting the binoculars to the side and dusting off his suit.

 

Illya nods. “Fine. I will stay here, they should stay in range.” He pulls a pair of sunglasses from his case and holds them out to Solo. “Here.”

 

“Thanks ever so much, Peril, but I have my own,” Solo says, lifting an eyebrow.

 

“No. Is listening device, so I can keep track of you.”

 

“Oh.” Solo takes them, examining them briefly in the light from the window. “Where's the device?”

 

“There,” Illya says, leaning forward to point at it before turning away to focus on the conversation between Gaby and Demir. When he looks up, Solo’s already halfway to the door.

* * *

 

Azra leads her to an elegant club with a surly bouncer outside and Gaby does her best to tamp down any disappointment. “Are we meeting your friends here?”

 

“Something like that,” Azra says with a wink, then shushes her playfully. 

 

The bouncer admits Azra with a familiar nod, and Gaby follows her through the front room without saying a word. It's richly decorated with red velvet and plump chairs, booths lining the wall with a centre space for mingling or dancing. The bar seems well-stocked, crystal glasses sparkling in the dim light, but Azra walks through with barely a glance around her. Instead, she heads directly for an inconspicuous door at the back of the room. A wooden staircase leads downwards, and Gaby shoots Azra a curious look.

 

“Where on earth are you taking me?” She asks.

 

Azra takes her hand and pats it. “Mona, I told you that these are not just my friends, but also business associates. Understand that I am trusting you with this information.” She takes a breath, looking more nervous than Gaby has seen her when she frowns and bites her lip. “As you might have guessed, I am against my country being connected to Europe in any way. We were right to remain uninvolved in their troubles in the war. Nothing good can come of an association with the EEC, but that is where the politicians are taking us.” She hesitates, then squeezes Gaby’s hand. “Things will be clear when you meet my friends. Please, follow me.”

* * *

 

“She's gone inside,” Napoleon says, taking a seat at a conveniently placed teahouse opposite the club. He turns, about to catch the waiter’s attention, when Illya’s voice in his ear startles him.

 

“I can still hear her, keep lookout.”

 

“Christ, Kuryakin,” Napoleon hisses, snatching up an abandoned newspaper so that he doesn't appear completely raving mad. “Why didn't you tell me this works both ways?”

 

There's a moment of silence, and Napoleon imagines he hears a small huff of laughter from Illya.

 

“Thought it was obvious,” Illya says, a lame excuse if Napoleon’s ever heard one. “Now be quiet. I have to listen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lots more dialogue here, and plot progression with it! we got banter and we got hints at Tension ;) between napoleon and illya, its all going on folks  
> only two more exams left for me, and theyre on tuesday, at which point i'll be able to start writing again so posting should pick with regularity!  
> thank you again for the continued comments, i appreciate every single one and try to reply to them all! extra special shoutout to returning commentors, but i think youre all stars!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guys im here with another update  
> i saw the killers in concert yesterday it was mad good and id like to thank brandon flowers personally for curing me of my woes

Unless Gaby’s living in a world of hellish and embarrassing coincidences, she has successfully infiltrated Wasp. There's a group of twenty or so gathered in the secret room beneath the club, and as she spends time observing she notices that each of them wear some kind of Wasp insignia. Several of the men wear signet rings or brooches, one even has a tie pin with a wasp motif, whereas the few women gathered wear delicate earrings or, as Gaby notices when Azra removes her headscarf, necklaces.

 

Gaby remains mostly quietly, being introduced to everyone in the room, including Ozdemir, and focusing on remembering their faces and repeating their names at least once so that Illya definitely has them clearly on the recording. For the first twenty minutes or so, everyone mingles and chats. There seems to be no pressing rush, and only when two more men enter does it seem that business may be about to begin.

 

One of them she recognises as Kaya, but the other she is unfamiliar with. He is tall, probably one of the tallest men in the room, and appears to be the only other European in the room. His hair is a dark chestnut, curling slightly where it grows long and he has a neatly trimmed beard of the same colour. He's pale, even after being in the Turkish sun, and when she catches sight of his hands as he moves to the front of his room, they seem worn with hard work. Kaya takes a seat at the round table that the man somehow manages to stand at the head of, and Azra tugs Gaby down into a seat next to her as everyone else does likewise.

 

Since he entered the room, Gaby decided that something about the man was unsettling, and studying him study the room, she realises it is his eyes. The man is in his early thirties, but the lines around his eyes hint at lifetimes lived. And they're dark, his eyes, disturbingly so. Being watched by them feels like being caught in a spotlight. 

 

“Well, friends, it's wonderful to see you all again. And with a few new faces, too,” he says, and Gaby realises his accent is Irish, though she can't tell if it's northern or southern. “For those of you that do not know me, my name is Robert Murphy. My role here to help you guide your country to the future it deserves.”

 

There are a few polite claps, but everyone in the room is nodding in agreement. Murphy waits for a moment before continuing, he clearly knows how to control a room.

 

“Since we last spoke, our plans have progressed smoothly. Mr Ozdemir has succeeded in securing us enough weapons to create a formidable scene, and the rising is set for one week from today. The people, your people, can sense it. Already they gather to protest European meddling in their affairs. When the time comes, they will join us." Murphy pauses, surveys the room, and Gaby catches herself holding her breath. “And if your parliament doesn't listen to the people of Istanbul, then we'll take the fight to them in Ankara!”

 

This time, the applause is impressive. Next to her, Azra stands up. Kaya catches the movement and does the same, and the rest of the table follows suit until Gaby, well aware she can't afford to be conspicuous, joins them. Murphy remains the centre of their attention for a minute, until he ducks his head and waves their gratitude away. 

 

“It isn't me you should be thanking, it's  _ yourselves _ . Each of you has made this happen,” he says, and Gaby stops listening to him, instead watching as everyone present stares at him, transfixed. 

 

Murphy’s part of the meeting eventually ends. Then comes the time for the others at the table to stand and have their say, or issue reports on various progresses made or money earned. It becomes dull, and whilst Gaby does pay attention, she can't help relying on the fact that they'll have a recording to send off for U.N.C.L.E to analyse. 

 

At the end, Azra takes Gaby by the arm and steers her towards Murphy, who greets Azra with a kiss on the cheek and Gaby with a handshake.

 

“Robert, this is my dear friend Mrs Mona Orlov,” Azra says, and Gaby gives her brightest smile.

 

“Charmed,” Murphy says, his grin sharp. “Did you enjoy the meeting?”

 

“It was very enlightening,” Gaby says, wondering whether she should flirt with Murphy, then deciding that it can't do any harm. “You're quite the speaker, Mr Murphy. I can see why Azra brought me to see you before asking for my money.”

 

Murphy laughs as Azra shrugs, smiling. “Please, call me Robert.”

 

“Mona, we are far too great friends for something like money to stand in the way,” Azra says, nudging Gaby gently in the side. All the same, she still hesitates before she continues. “Would you consider donating to our cause, though?”

 

“You certainly won me over,” Gaby says smoothly, and Azra beams at her in relief. “Robert, you really do have some wonderful ideas. I wonder if there is somewhere that I can contact you outside of these meetings?”

 

“But of course,” Murphy says, like it was never even a question, and pulls a card out of his jacket to hand to Gaby. “Call or come and see me any time."

 

The implication hangs heavy in the air and Gaby can practically see Illya scowling in melodramatic offence.

 

She slips the card into her handbag and smiles at her two companions. “I do hope you won't think I'm being rude, but I have a date to keep.” She wiggles her fingers at Murphy as Azra walks her to the staircase. “You'll call me about how I can donate the money, won't you?”

 

Azra nods, pulling her into a hug. “Of course, darling. Are you alright to walk on your own?”

 

“Fine, fine.” Gaby leans close to Azra, whispering in her ear. “I didn't want to say in front of Robert, but I am meeting Dimitri for lunch.” 

 

Azra laughs with her as they part. “Have a wonderful time, darling. Don't worry, I won't tell him a thing.”

* * *

 

His tea finished, Napoleon sits at his table, thoroughly bored. He's too focused to flirt or people-watch, and too distracted to make an illusion of skimming a Turkish newspaper he can't read. Memories of the mission in Rome still fresh, particularly of what happened last time Gaby went off on her own, leave Napoleon with an uncomfortable tightness in the pit of his stomach, as though his body is certain that someone's going to get kidnapped or betrayed or have a motorcycle thrown at them.

 

His body turns out to be wrong, because Gaby exits the club moments later and immediately clocks him, sitting in plain sight. Knowing Gaby won't be able to join him at the teahouse, some archaic traditions are too sturdy to be challenged in a single day, Napoleon stands to meet her.

 

“She's here,” he says, and Illya mutters an affirmative.

 

“How was it?” He asks as he meets Gaby at the pavement and they walk together.

 

She tilts a hand from side to side. “Very informative, very intense.” She takes the opportunity to scan around them as she slips on her sunglasses, and Napoleon wonders how he never picked up on that in Rome. “I'll tell you more at the hotel.”

 

Napoleon nods and changes the subject. “Do you like the sunglasses Peril got me?”

 

Gaby looks at him, eyes narrowed. She removes the sunglasses, despite the indignant noise he makes, and puts the part of the frame with the bug to her lips. “Hello, Illya.” Her voice is raised, ever so slightly, and Napoleon winces at the feedback Illya must be suffering from.

 

“You're a dangerous woman,” Napoleon says, perhaps a bit ridiculously pleased when Gaby laughs, tipping her head back.

* * *

 

When they reach Illya, back in the Pera district at a restaurant they have come to frequent, he scowls at both of them.

 

“I don't know why you're looking at me like that, she's the one who made you suffer,” Napoleon says as Gaby smirks.

 

“Perhaps. But it is your bad habits that are rubbing off on her,” Illya grumbles.

 

Napoleon bites back a thousand innuendos, and Gaby tips her head back and laughs again.

* * *

 

Back in the hotel room and only as tipsy as lunch had allowed, Gaby and Illya fill him in on what he missed and something clicks.

 

“ _ That _ was what I meant to tell you, it completely slipped my mind,” Napoleon says. “On our first day here I saw a few groups gathered outside the consulates. All of them European, and there was a man giving a speech outside of the British one.”

 

“What did he look like?” Gaby asks.

 

Napoleon shakes his head. “It was too dark to tell and I was too far away, but he was speaking Turkish without any accent and didn't look a thing like how you're describing Murphy, if that's what you're wondering.” The look on her face tells him it was, and they grin at each other.

 

“What do we do now?” Illya asks, looking between them. “We have several more leads. And now there is a more pressing time constraint.”

 

“I need to call Waverly and update him and do something with that recording,” Gaby decides, moving to reach the telephone. “You two come up with a plan.” She leaves, entering the bedroom she shares with Illya.

 

Napoleon raises his eyebrows at Illya. “Any ideas?”

 

“I am still waiting to see whether Ozdemir will contact me again,” Illya says, looking back at Napoleon. “That is my priority.”

 

“I think I should do some snooping around this Murphy fellow,” Napoleon says, shrugging at Illya’s questioning look. “Kaya’s not really getting me anywhere because the only place he wants me is in bed.” He doesn't stop talking, but notes the miniscule twitch at the corner of Illya’s eye for later consideration. “Gaby can take him out for the day tomorrow and play at adultery to see if she learns anything more and I'll see if I can find anything of a more material nature.”

 

Illya opens his mouth, already frowning, and Napoleon chuckles.

 

“I'm not going to rob him of his valuables. I meant I’d see if there's any kind of paper trail or clues as to where the real Wasp base is. In and out, no mess.”

 

Apparently content to let it lie, Illya nods. “Then we have plan. Good work, Cowboy.”

 

That's that, it seems. Illya focuses on the chessboard he instated when they arrived, and Napoleon is left to entertain himself. In a moment of frustration, he wonders what it takes to summon a smile from him like Gaby does. She only has to make one remark and Illya’s in his own special version of hysterics, but Napoleon can make any number of quips and witticisms, or even do “good work" and receive nothing more than the barest acknowledgement.

 

Then he thinks, why does he care, anyway? He barely knows Illya, barely knows Gaby. So what if Illya doesn't think he's funny? The entire situation reminds him of exactly why he works better alone in the first place.

 

“Be seeing you,” Napoleon says, standing up a second after the revelation.

 

Illya frowns up at him as he stands. “But… the plan?”

 

“Oh, you take all the credit for that one,” Napoleon says, deliberately misunderstanding him. “Call me with what Gaby thinks of it, won't you?”

 

“What are you going to do?” 

 

The lack of tact very nearly physically hurts Napoleon. “Have a bath, I think. I'm meeting Kaya for dinner before he jets off back to Ankara. See you.”

 

If Illya has a reply, Napoleon shuts the door on it.

 

It wasn't a whole lie. He will be having dinner with Kaya in several hours. 

 

But honestly, he still feels exhausted after Rome. They only got one night to rest, and whilst he doesn't doubt that the others were suffering too, sometimes his bones still ache after Von Trulsch’s torture (he can't call him Uncle Rudi in the same, light-hearted way Waverly did, not after that). He's getting better, his head doesn't ache half as often and the moments of tightness in his chest faded away once he realised he had to ease back into walking or risk a heart attack. In some ways, this mission had been a blessing. 

 

But Napoleon’s wary of what Istanbul might throw at them next, when they don't expect it. If he can bathe, sleep, and have dinner tonight without getting worked up about whether his teammates think he's funny, then he'll grab at the chance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there we go. i love gaby with all my heart and i hope it shows dsfjgsdf  
> hope yall enjoyed!!!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rip me am i right guys  
> im back i have an extra long chapter for yall as an apology for my absence lmao  
> i Do have more written so hopefully we're back with a regular update schedule but its like,...... who knows

Pera District, Istanbul

5th June, 1963

 

That Murphy should have an apartment in the Pera district isn't necessarily unusual, it is the city’s European quarter after all. But the fact that it seems to be in such a pleasant building wrongfoots Napoleon somewhat. It just doesn't seem inkeeping for what he's heard of the Irish nationalist-socialist. Then again, maybe revolutions are harder to organise in squalor, what does he know? (Part of him thinks he should make a joke about it to Illya. Another part of him wants to save his kneecaps.)

 

Gaining entry is child’s play. A goat, or something equally lacking in opposable thumbs, could pick the lock to the service entrance. He doesn't have the luxury of a choice between stairs or elevator; the building in many ways doesn't appear to have caught up with what century it's in. Napoleon pauses by the door, straining to hear anything in the room beyond. He's always uncomfortable breaking in anywhere domestic during the day; barely anyone's at home, but every move feels like being placed under a microscope to be scrutinised.

 

The lock to Murphy’s apartment gives him significantly more trouble, and Napoleon is momentarily glad that Illya was there to see him break into the Vinciguerras’ and not here. In fact, the lock proves to be such a pain that Napoleon tries the next door along, and when it swings open after just a few seconds, his confidence in himself is at least restored. It takes several more embarrassing minutes before Napoleon is inside Murphy’s apartment, and as he slips his tools into his pocket he decides that his version of the story will be very different. 

 

The apartment is nice, in a spacious, airy, ‘I just bought the place and I haven't had time to redecorate’ kind of way, because Murphy definitely isn't as interested in Greco-Roman wrestling as the posters on the wall imply. There really is nothing to show any kind of personality in the decorating. Napoleon wonders how long Murphy’s been living there as he wanders through, careful not to touch anything with a layer of dust on it so as not to leave clues of his visit. In the long run, the dust helps him.

 

He examines the main room, the one he entered first, filled with a kitchenette and dining table with a desk pushed into the corner. It's piled high with papers, so of course Napoleon investigates it, but they're nothing more than drafts of speeches akin to the one Gaby heard last night. There's a bedroom to the left of the dining area, unsettling bare with a bed and a wardrobe and nothing else, not even a carpet. It reminds Napoleon, in a moment of unexpected reflection, of his parents’ bedroom.

 

The only obvious place to search is the wardrobe. Napoleon is relieved, to a degree, to not find a safe facing him when he opens the doors. He wants desperately to believe that the people they're facing are more of a challenge than that. It's only his practiced thief’s fingers that allow him to find anything at all. Running his hands over the interior of the wardrobe, he catches a bump in a top corner. He presses on it, hears a soft click, and the entire panel comes away in his hands, weighed down by a safe box.

 

_ Now we're getting somewhere _ , Napoleon thinks in satisfaction, his spirits staying high even when he notices that the lock is the same make as the door. 

 

Thankfully, the repetition of the task renders it easier and, more attuned to the tricks required to bypass this particular maker, the strongbox takes him barely half the time the door did to crack open.

 

Finally, he’s found the interesting stuff. There are letters, photographs, reports, scraps of notes and what looks like a street plan of Istanbul. Napoleon hesitates, then rifles through and starts to read at random. 

 

It’s boring, something about a financial backer for Wasp by a name that Napoleon’s never heard of. With the sheer amount of material in front of him, Napoleon knows he doesn’t have time to even skim through every page. Gaby’s good, but short of sleeping with him there’s nothing she can do to keep Murphy entertained for the hours Napoleon would need to understand what he’s looking at. He’s going to have to take the box, but if Murphy gets home and finds it missing there’s a very realistic chance he’ll realise he’s been set up. Napoleon bites back a sigh. He’s going to have to go against his every instinct and learned behaviour and ransack the place. 

 

He sets the box by the door, shrugs off his jacket and folds it on top of the box, and rolls up his sleeves. Facing the apartment, he finally does sigh.  _ So much for no mess. _

  
  


By the time he gets back to the hotel, taking a long and winding route to get there, Napoleon’s just about had it with the day. Destroying an apartment in as close to silence as possible turns out to be incredibly exhausting, a fact only exacerbated by how improperly dressed for situation he was. He wants a shower and a drink, not necessarily in that order. But, like the martyr he is, Napoleon bypasses his room in favour of Illya and Gaby’s. 

 

When he enters, Illya is on the phone and shoots Napoleon a warning glare the moment he sees him. Recognising it must be Ozdemir on the phone, Napoleon nods and heads directly for the drinks cabinet. 

 

“Thinking of taking a business trip, Cowboy?” Illya asks, gesturing to the briefcase Napoleon’s set on the coffee table.

 

Napoleon had bought it on the way back to the hotel, needing something considerably more inconspicuous than a safebox to tote through the streets of Istanbul. He smirks at Illya, flipping the briefcase open. “Not just yet. I brought it back from Murphy’s apartment.”

 

Illya’s expression shifts instantly, eyebrows knitting into a frown. “You covered your tracks, yes?”

 

“I'm not a total amateur,” Napoleon assures him, somewhat surprised at the level of faith Illya shows in him. “I made it look like a random break in. Even jiggled the locks of his neighbours for good measure.”

 

“Ah.” Illya watches him and Napoleon glances away, searching through the papers. “That explains the sweat.”

 

Napoleon groans and collapses back into his chair, pushing the briefcase towards Illya with his heel. “After the effort I go to so that you get this evidence as soon as possible, you mock me and then you insult me. Well, I've had enough, Peril,” his tone is light, none of the irritation genuine. “What have you done today?”

 

Illya looks at him over the top of the briefcase and Napoleon can only see his eyes. They're an icy blue, with lines worn at the corners. Napoleon takes a sip of his drink for something to do.

 

“I had phone call from Ozdemir,” Illya says after a moment, sifting through the papers. “He wishes to meet again tonight. I think he might take me to the Wasp base.”

 

“Is that so?” Napoleon asks, still residing in the depths of the chair. “Why do you think that?”

 

There's a beat. “Because he said he wished to show me his organisation's base of operations.”

 

“Yes, well, that ought to do it,” Napoleon says, raising his eyebrows and downing the last of his drink. “You'll go tomorrow, get a feel for a place, then the three of us will dive in for whatever information we can on Wasp and leave the rest to the MAH.” When he doesn't receive a response, Napoleon frowns and pokes the lid of the briefcase with the toe of his shoe. “You fall in there, Peril?”

 

Illya shuts the briefcase with an abrupt movements and sets a document down in front of Napoleon. It's written in Turkish, and all Napoleon can do is shrug at Illya. 

 

“This says they are planning more than a rising,” Illya says, his voice tight. “They plan to overthrow the government and place their own people in positions of power once peace is restored.”

 

“They think a rising led by an Irishman will succeed?” Napoleon mutters, cocking an eyebrow. “Do they know nothing? And I can say that because I'm Irish. You know, Peril, suddenly I'm not so afraid of these people.”

 

Illya’s glaring at him, so Napoleon lifts his hands in helplessness. 

 

“The objective’s still the same, isn't it? We go in and get intelligence on Wasp and whatever other proverbial pies they've got their fingers in, and then the MAH clear up what's there. There might be a few more weapons stockpiled, but Waverly’s already going to know about a potential threat in Ankara.” Napoleon shakes his head. “You worry too much, Peril.”

 

“You are not taking this seriously,” Illya snaps back. “Many lives are in danger, Solo.”

 

It's at that moment that Gaby enters the room, settling lightly on the sofa next to Napoleon. “Whose lives are in danger?” She asks.

 

“Everyone in Istanbul and Ankara, if you're asking the Red Peril,” Napoleon says, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. “He's ever so generous when it comes to giving credit where none’s due.”

 

“Wasp want to completely dismantle the country’s government and have their members enter into power,” Illya says to Gaby, ignoring him.

 

_ Rat, _ Napoleon thinks, viciously.

 

“We need to infiltrate their base as soon as possible,” Gaby says, ever the pragmatist.

 

“Ozdemir already invited me there tomorrow,” Illya says.

 

“So, we break in the next day,” Napoleon says. “Gaby, can MAH get themselves together in time?”

 

She’s already heading for the phone. “They'll have to.”

 

“Problem solved,” Napoleon says, flashing Illya a blithe smile only to be ignored once more. “Drinks, anyone?”

* * *

Just outside Ağva, Şile District, Istanbul Province

6th June, 1963

 

It takes a little over two hours to drive to Ağva, Ozdemir says little in that time, which suits Illya well- he only has so many prepared lines of small talk. The countryside provides him with something to look at, green and bursting into life under the June sun with rolling fields bordered trees and edged by mountains. It grows more humid as they approach the coast, the sea sparkles a surreal blue on the horizon (there is a private, fleeting thought that Illya has only seen that shade of blue once before), but Ozdemir turns off the road before they ever see Ağva. 

 

They leave behind the main road for a track, dusty and threatening overgrowth if it continues to be so little used. Rattling minutes later, they arrive at a farmhouse. It is small, held together by chance more than anything. A few chickens peck about the entryway, and some straw heaped in the corner of an outbuilding speaks of a job yet to be done, but otherwise the signs of life are few and far between.

 

“I wonder,” says Ozdemir as he exits the car, barely glancing at Illya. “Has your wife told you much about her time with Azra Demir?”

 

Illya’s look of surprise is not entirely acted. “I was not aware you knew they are friends.”

 

“Well, I am friends with Azra. You know how talkative she is,” Ozdemir says as he walks to the farmhouse. “But I did have the chance to meet your lovely wife a few days ago. Azra is also a part of this organisation, you see.”

 

“Wasp,” Illya says, as if remembering suddenly.

 

“Exactly.” Ozdemir turns a key in the door’s lock and pushes it open, the lack of any creak an unsettling juxtaposition with the building’s appearance. “Azra wants your wife to donate to the cause. Have I explained our cause to you?”

 

Illya shakes his head. “You have not. I can only assume you hope to achieve it by force.”

 

“Not a bad guess,” Ozdemir allows, then falls quiet as he leads Illya through the farmhouse.

 

It is bare inside, one split sack of grain by the front door, but otherwise without furnishings. The walls are peeling, but the floorboards reveal a distinct path, cleared of dust by regular use. Ozdemir takes him to one of the rooms at the very back of the building, filled with rolled up rugs leant against the walls. Illya has to wait in the doorway as Ozdemir sorts through until enough floorspace is revealed for a trapdoor to be opened. There’s no time to ask questions as Ozdemir beckons Illya to follow and drops through.

 

There is a basement underneath, but not as Illya was suspecting. It is lit by lamps at regular intervals along the walls, and on the East-facing wall is a metal door with two guards stood either side of it, carrying guns. They recognise Ozdemir, nod to him, and one turns to open the door as they approach. The whole encounter is wordless, and it is only when Illya and Ozdemir have stepped into a long corridor lit by fluorescent lamps that Ozdemir speaks again. 

 

“If everything goes to plan, then there won't be a need for violence, not to any great extent. We have planned a rising to show citizen discontent at the idea of joining with the EEC, and we hope that a subsequent one in Ankara will show the government that they are making a mistake.”

 

Illya waits and keeps walking, glancing at his watch.

 

“However, if the government refuses to listen to the people, then we will stop any further talks going ahead by force. Our country has recovered from worse.”

 

“May I ask why you don't want Turkey associated with the EEC?” Illya asks.

 

Ozdemir shrugs. “There are numerous reasons. What you have to understand, Mr Orlov, is that it goes directly against my organisation’s interests to have these diplomatic ties formed. We are aiming for something much grander, on a global scale.”

 

“And you think I can help with this,” Illya finishes, then allows himself to smirk. “Or, that my money can.”

 

“Exactly. Once this phase of our plan is complete, we would be very interested in maintaining a continued relationship with you, to our mutual benefit.”

 

They walk for some time more, almost an hour, but the further they get the more activity there is. More corridors branch off into rooms or further passages, and at times the corridor they are walking along slopes gently downwards. 

 

Illya glances at Ozdemir, puzzled.

 

“You're right, Mr Orlov. We are now under the Black Sea. There's simply so much more space here for us to work undisturbed,” Ozdemir says with a sharp grin.

 

It's reminiscent of the Vinciguerras’ base, and Illya can't help but think that Solo, if he was there, would have a few comments to make on that front.

 

They pause in front of a room that has walls lined with guns, rifles and automatics stretching into darkness and Ozdemir grins again at Illya’s look.

 

“You see, we are more prepared than you thought.”

 

The trepidation that has been tightening Illya’s chest since he read Wasp’s plans the previous night clenches his heart. Solo’s voice enters his head,  _ suddenly I'm not so afraid of these people, _ and Illya thinks grimly that he should be.

 

Finally, Ozdemir seems ready to show Illya the real reason he brought him to the base. They enter a room that seems to be his office, and a from a wooden desk that seems entirely out of place in a building constructed of metal and grey, Ozdemir pulls a file and offers it to him. Illya flicks through it to find it is several pages of names. Some of them he recognises, most of them he doesn't, and as he scans through, Ozdemir starts talking again.

 

“You must be wondering what our great plan is, Mr Orlov. Tell me, do you know what links all the people in that list?”

 

Illya shakes his head, barely keeping his breath even as he stares at a name on the final page of the list.  _ Alexander Vinciguerra. _

 

“These people are all very rich, very powerful, and have contributed to our organisation. You see, the aim of Wasp is to bring the world together under one power. To unite the human race. We cannot do that with incidents such as Turkey joining the EEC. The ideas of separation, splendid isolation, are key for our plan to work.

 

“Wasp asks nothing in return for uniting the world, in fact we don't want any credit at all. Once we gain the power to guide every country as it requires, we want those countries to believe they are still in charge of their own destinies. People become very defensive when their illusion of freedom is shattered.”

 

“So, you'd be helping people,” Illya says, wishing Solo was doing this instead of him. “All the countries in the world would be working in tandem, because you could prevent wars and reduce disaster without them realising.”

 

Ozdemir smiles, seeming genuine for the first time since they met. “Exactly, Mr Orlov. Can I count on your help in this?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you enjoyed it! do let me know and boost my ego to prevent further month long disappearances ;))))))


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lads.... i said i'd be back and i am  
> have to admit, this is one of my favourite chapters, i've been really excited to post this so i hope u enjoy it!

Pera District, Istanbul

 

“Wasp wants to do  _ what _ ?”

 

If it was any other circumstance, Illya would feel smug for the strangled shock in Solo’s voice. As it is, he simply nods wearily. 

 

“Take over the world,” Gaby echoes, seeming far away for a moment. “We have to stop them.

 

“Sharp as a tack today, Gaby,” Solo says, leaning forward in his chair, elbows on his knees.

 

“We need to call Waverly,” Gaby says, straightening. “This is so far above our pay grade.”

 

“And spark a diplomatic crisis?” Solo asks, shaking his head. “No, he's British. He'll tell us to appease them, then act surprised that Wasp’s running the world. No, I say we go now. In and out, grab what intelligence we can, then send the MAH in to tear the place apart.”

 

“Don't be stupid, Cowboy,” Illya snaps, hating the way Solo can be so arrogant and certain all at once. “This is bigger than the three of us. Waverly needs to tell KGB, MI5, even CIA.”

 

“So that they can all debate what to do while Wasp takes control one country at a time?” Solo asks, speaking as evenly as ever, arching an eyebrow at Illya. “They already have Kaya in the Turkish government. What if they have agents in all of ours too?”

 

“Would you stop being such  _ men _ ?” Gaby demands, standing up, hands on hips, towering above both of them. “All you do is assume you know what will happen whatever we do, and neither of you will do your job! Solo, you should remember that you report to your superior officer. And Illya, you should remember that the superior officer is Waverly, not the KGB.” She shoots them both a look of disgust. “I am going to do my job, you can keep bickering like  _ children _ .” She strides away, choosing to use the phone in the bedroom rather than in the lounge, as evidenced by the slamming doors behind her.

 

A heavy silence falls, even if Solo pretends he can't sense the tension and reclines in his chair.

 

“She is right,” Illya says, as the muted sounds of Gaby’s conversation drift into the room. Solo looks like he's about to interrupt, and Illya raises a hand. “I thought we reached an agreement in Italy. Why are you still like this?”

 

Solo shrugs. “I simply hate you that much, Peril.”

 

Illya watches, carefully, searching for the smile he'd seen on the balcony in Rome. He can't find it. “You really hate us?”

 

“Can't stand you,” Solo says. “Unfortunate, isn't it? Don't feel like it's personal, I'm not much fond of Gaby either.” He heaves a sigh. “Tell you what, though, you're both right. We need to be a team. I'll put my personal feelings aside and go for diplomacy.”

 

Illya frowns, but he can't help feeling this is the most honest Solo’s ever been. “Thank you, then. That’s gracious of you,” he adds, the words sour and insincere.

 

“It's my way,” Solo says, and settles back, leaving Illya to stew in silence.

 

After a few more minutes, Gaby returns, looking satisfied at the sight of them sitting quietly. “Waverly says we should proceed as planned, but the MAH forces will have orders to detain who they can and kill the rest. They're also going to arrest everyone who was at the meeting.” She pauses, presumably for emphasis. “He was very grateful that we kept him up to date.”

 

“It was the smart choice, Gaby,” Solo says. “We just talked about it and we're sorry about our behaviour. Right, Peril?”

 

Illya nods when Gaby looks at him, and the last of the tension eases from the room. 

 

“In that case, boys,” she says, bright once more. “Let's work on our plan of attack.”

 

* * *

 

Hours later, Solo leaves, citing his need for sleep and Gaby begins to get ready for bed. Illya sits in front of his chessboard and thinks.

 

“Why are you sulking?” Gaby asks from the bathroom.

 

“How do you know I'm sulking?” Illya frowns in the direction of her voice, then adds: “I am not sulking. I am thinking.”

 

“Illya, you're a terrible liar and I'm tired.” Gaby stands in the doorway to the bedroom, pyjamas on and hands on hips. “Just tell me.”

 

Illya glares at the air around Gaby. “It is nothing.”

 

“Oh my God-"

 

“Fine.” Illya snaps as Gaby rolls her eyes. “Solo said he hates us. I don't understand how he can hate his teammates.”

 

“He said that?” Gaby arches an eyebrow, but she doesn't seem surprised. Or angry. In fact, when Illya nods, she  _ laughs. _ “And you believed him? Illya, he's been hiding something from us since Rome, but he doesn't  _ hate us. _ ”

 

Illya stands up, and, unsure of his next move, abruptly sits back down. “So what is he hiding?” He doesn't need to ask  _ why _ Solo lied; it's in his very nature, as naturally as a temper comes to Gaby and pride comes to Illya. 

 

“My guess is the CIA’s still giving him orders,” Gaby says, shrugging and retiring to the bedroom. She laughs again. “Maybe he's in love with one of us.”

 

Illya snorts. “I think I will go and see him,” he says.

 

“Oh, Illya!” Gaby sounds momentarily frustrated. “Let him sleep. See him tomorrow before we leave, if you must.”

 

“Fine,” Illya grumbles. “But first thing tomorrow-"

 

“You'll give him a good talking to,” Gaby finishes. “Now, would you turn off the lights out there?”

 

* * *

 

Pera District, Istanbul

7th June, 1963

 

Napoleon dreams again that night. He is somewhere underground, somewhere labyrinthine filled with dark rooms and twisted corridors and men everywhere who he  _ must obey _ . Every exit he finds is locked, but when he pulls out a lockpick he drops it. A short man with a limp emerges from the shadows, Sanders’ voice tells him to  _ stand still and do as you're told, Solo _ and he does. The man with the limp holds a needle in his hand- No, he holds a key and he offers it to Napoleon. 

 

Every fibre of his being, every atom that came together to form him cries out to take it and  _ run _ and  _ never stop running, never stop hiding and lying, never stop and never trust them it's the only way to stay-  _

 

To stay what? Free, or himself?

 

The question fades and he reaches out to take the key, but there's Sanders’ voice again.

 

_ Solo, you will follow orders. Stay still. _

 

Napoleon takes the key and turns it in the lock and as he does there is a cataclysmic pain in his head. Everything comes to a screeching halt and he wakes up to a room of blinding, searing light and the feeling of his skull splitting open and a wave of nausea roiling through him.

 

He stumbles to the bathroom and retches into the toilet, shaking, his hands coated in sweat and slipping on the porcelain, only to hear a knock on the door.

 

He ignores it, flushes the toilet and grips the edge of the sink to pull himself up. There's another knock as he turns on the tap and douses his face with water. His reflection in the mirror above the sink is pale, deep lines furrowing his forehead like he's carved of marble.

 

Again, more knocking that shudders through his head. Napoleon winces, catches it in the mirror and smoothes his expression into one of reluctant wakefulness. He pulls his pyjama shirt off and drops it onto the bathroom floor, leans over to start the shower running, ducks his head under the spray, and ambles to the door.

 

It's Illya who's been knocking, because of course it is.

 

“Can I help?” Napoleon asks, feeling incredibly smug at how taken aback Illya looks to see him shirtless. Open-mouthed and staring isn't a bad look on him.

 

Illya gathers himself and narrows his eyes into a glare. “You are hiding something from Gaby and me.”

 

Napoleon heaves a sigh and ushers him in. “Peril, I don't know if anyone's seen fit to tell you this lately, but we’re spies. It's part of the job description.”

 

“Not from your team,” Illya says, stubborn as ever, and Napoleon turns around to look at him with an eyebrow raised.

 

“Is that so? Then tell me, Red. What sort of things did you and your KGB playmates share with each other?”

 

“Anything pertaining to the mission and our personal safety.” Illya answers quickly, clearly having thought ahead.

 

Napoleon extends his hand towards the door. “This relates to neither of those. Goodbye, now.”

 

“Don't you trust us?” Illya demands.

 

Illya is frowning, clearly frustrated, but Napoleon can't tell whether the source is his own general vexing nature or some unfounded concern on Illya’s part.

 

“How long have we known each other?” Napoleon asks, and doesn't wait for an answer. “Less than a month. Not including one hostile car chase through East Berlin, we've known each other a grand total of twenty-four days. Of course I don't trust you- there's croissant crumbs in my suitcase I've had a longer relationship with!” He pauses, makes a show of breathing steadily. “Why am I lying? Why am I hiding things? I don't  _ know _ you, Peril. And before you ask, I don't lie to Gaby because she doesn't ask questions.”

 

Illya looks the spitting image of a kicked puppy and Napoleon resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Listen, I'm quite happy to be part of a team with you. I did lie before, I don't hate you and Gaby. In fact, if pushed I'd save your lives. Have done, actually. Maybe this team will last and we'll all end up living together in a one-bedroom apartment in Greenwich Village. But until we reach that point, Peril, I'm going to need you to get out of my room so I can finish my shower in peace.”

 

He leaves, and Napoleon practically breathes a sigh of relief.  _ That should keep him occupied for at least another two weeks. _

 

* * *

 

 

When Illya returns to their room, Gaby looks at him expectantly. “How did it go? Is he ever so sorry?”

 

A smile twitches Illya’s mouth. “No, but I think I understand him much better.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gaby and illya shouldnt have needed to read napoleon's file to know he's gay..... its right there in the meaningless petty drama lmao  
> also guys!! this mission is coming to a close, and im currently writing their second one of the fic! things are happening!  
> thanks as always for youre continued support, esp the people who came back after that month-long gap!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here we go! sorry its a little late- enjoy!

Wasp Base, Şile District, Istanbul Province

  
  


“I still think we should have tried diving in,” Napoleon says, looking on with distaste as Illya double-checks to two guards in the basement. 

 

“We do not have copy of plans for base,” Illya says, not even deigning to look at him when he speaks.

 

Gaby pulls cable ties from her backpack as she steps forward, offering two to Illya and they both set about tying the unconscious guards’ hands and feet. “Besides, we wouldn’t have time to adjust to the pressure,” she says, and Napoleon fights the urge to ask when  _ exactly  _ she became an expert on scuba-diving.

 

_ They come from money, _ he tells himself.  _ Both of them. Diving’s the sport of the rich and idle. _

 

“Are you done sulking?” Gaby asks as she straightens, levelling her gaze at him.

 

“I never sulk,” Napoleon disagrees, watching Illya pull the door open with a grunt. He smirks at Gaby. “But I am always comforted.”

 

She is unimpressed. “Not anymore.”

 

“Shall we go?” Illya asks through gritted teeth, and Napoleon nods.

 

“Go on then, Peril. You take point, we’ll come tumbling after.”

 

With Gaby in the middle and Napoleon bringing up the rear, they continue on in relative silence, relying on hand signals from Illya to know when to stop and wait and when to scramble out of sight. Something about the base unsettles Napoleon, and it doesn’t take a great thinker to connect the crushing rooms of the CIA blacksite and the sprawling network of the Wasp base. 

 

_ Next time had better be infiltrating a billionaire’s mansion. Or luxury yacht. _

 

After about forty minutes of awkward, stop-start jogging, Illya has them pause by one room in particular. He gestures to it in silence, and, peering in, Napoleon sees that it’s the weapons room Illya had mentioned in his account of the base. He whistles, low and impressed, and receives glares from both teammates. 

 

“Have to keep moving,” Illya whispers, and before either Gaby or Napoleon can respond, he’s off again.

 

Eventually, Illya pauses outside another door and looks expectantly at Napoleon, who’s already preparing his lockpicks.

 

“This is Ozdemir’s office,” Illya explains. 

 

When Napoleon pushes the door open seconds later, he catches a thoughtful look on Gaby’s face.

 

“Do you think that the neighbouring rooms are also offices?” She asks.

 

Napoleon shoots her a grin. “I think that's very likely.” He leans into Ozdemir’s office, Illya already rummaging through the desk. “Peril, Gaby and I are going walkabout.” They move down the corridor before he can respond.

 

He leaves Gaby with the next room, an office decorated similarly to Ozdemir’s, and proceeds to unlock the next three rooms before the corridor splits into two. The first two rooms Napoleon tackles are dreadfully dull. They're small, they have no secret doors or cubby holes, and any papers in them are mind-numbingly bureaucratic. However, the third room is far more promising. 

 

As soon as he enters it, the office’s dimensions feel wrong. Napoleon pauses, and instantly disregards the bookcases and the desk in favour of scouring the back wall. At the corners, where it connects to the other walls, it's as though it's a poorly stitched seam, barely held together. There are filing cabinets along the wall, but Napoleon ignores them as well. Instead, he takes note of a slight scuff mark on the floor by one of the cabinets. It takes a minute for him to pull it away from the wall, but when he does he finds a lever embedded there. Feeling pleased, but ultimately unsurprised, Napoleon pulls it.

 

In surprising silence, the entirety of the back wall lifts into the ceiling, and Napoleon is greeted with a narrow room behind it. There’s a map of the world on the wall, with pins stuck in various countries. Napoleon scans it, briefly, and approaches the table to the side, piled with dossiers and papers. Clearly, whoever owns the office had been in the middle of something when they left. The papers are all written in English, which is something of a surprise, but welcome for Napoleon since he can actually read them. A once over tells him he doesn't have time to digest all the information here and now, so he gathers them together to stick in Gaby’s backpack. With a final look at the map, Napoleon turns to exit the room. The MAH are welcome to any of the filing U.N.C.L.E’s left behind.

 

Before he can leave the room, the sound of heavy-booted footsteps echo down the corridor. Napoleon freezes. He didn't bring a weapon; prefers to rely on his own stealth and charm to get him out of tight spots, but a pistol wouldn't go amiss.

 

Voices soon accompany the footsteps, calling to each other in Turkish. Again, Napoleon can't speak the language, but he can read the tone well enough to guess there's a level of confusion regarding why the offices of the most important people of their organisation are standing open. Just as he's considering the very real possibility of having to hide under the desk, six muted gunshots reach his ears.

 

Seconds later, he hears Gaby’s sweet voice. “Still alive in there, Solo?”

 

“And kicking,” he calls back as he steps into the corridor, finding Gaby, weapon in hand, standing over three prone bodies and Illya looking on with pride.

 

“Find anything?” Illya asks, finally noticing Napoleon’s presence.

 

“Plenty of things,” Napoleon replies, handing over the papers to wonderful, capable Gaby. “Are you two done? Now’s the time I like to hide the bodies and disappear into the night.”

 

Gaby nods. “I'll let the MAH know they can move in soon.”

 

As Napoleon and Illya both reach for the bodies, there's the sound of footsteps, many, many more footsteps, hurrying towards them. At Napoleon’s inquiring look, Gaby shakes her head.

 

“Not MAH.”

 

“Then dump the bodies and run,” Napoleon decides, barely waiting for the assent of the others before he takes off running in the opposite direction.

 

But the many, many footsteps keep up. Worse still, more footsteps sound from the corridors ahead of them. Napoleon glances up at an intersection to see a camera, small and easy to miss, nestled in a corner.  _ Looks like they’re better at this than I thought. _

 

“Up ahead!” Illya hisses from behind him, and Napoleon frowns over his shoulder.

 

“It’s a door, Peril,” he snaps. He’d seen it, but didn’t see any point in locking themselves in a potential deadend.

 

“It’s an airlock, idiot,” Illya snaps back, and an idea begins to form in Napoleon’s head. 

 

He skids to a halt in front of the door, grunting with the effort of turning to wheel mechanism to open it. As he does, and the footsteps and shouts grow closer, Illya pulls out his gun and Gaby speaks with rapid tones into her radio. As the airlock swings open, the three of them hurry inside and Illya strains to hold the door closed.

 

“I’ve contacted the MAH, but we can’t stay here,” Gaby says, urgent but controlled. 

 

“We’re sitting ducks,” Napoleon agrees, grimly. “And let’s face it, Illya’s no Hercules.”

 

If Illya wasn’t otherwise occupied, no doubt he’d get a scowl for that remark.

 

“Fortunately,” Napoleon says, his tone bright, “I have a plan.”

 

Illya barks a disbelieving laugh. “A plan, Cowboy? This I’d like to see.”

 

“Well, put on your shades, Peril, because you’re about to be blinded.” Napoleon grins. “What we have here is a classic bottleneck situation, and you both have guns, correct?”   
  
Gaby and Illya nod, and judging by their wary expressions, they can guess where his thoughts have taken him.

* * *

 

It had been a tough week for Yasin. He hadn’t got the promotion he’d been hoping for, and he and his wife were in the middle of a fight. With all the effort he’d been putting in to chase down that promotion, they’d seen each other less and less, and however much she understood the importance of Wasp’s work, she was getting tired of sharing her husband with the organisation.

 

And now, they had infiltrators who they’d only spotted fifteen minutes ago who had now sealed themselves into the airlock. 

 

At this rate, Yasin was going to be up for a demotion.

 

He and two other men were making embarrassingly slow progress turning the wheel to open the door, when suddenly the resistance on the other side disappeared. Moments later, the door swung open to reveal a man standing in the doorway, smiling. Smiling, in spite of the eighteen pistols and rifles trained on him. They had been ordered to detain and imprison, not kill, but he didn’t know that, and yet he stood relaxed, hands clasped in front of him.

 

“I suppose asking nicely won’t work,” the man remarks.

 

_ American, _ Yasin thinks, almost rolling his eyes.

 

“Put your hands up!” That was Selman, their boss, holding the position that should have been Yasin’s.

 

The American makes a slightly awkward expression. “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

 

Selman didn’t waste time. “Yasin, detain him.”

 

Yasin steps forwards until he’s almost face to face with the American, and gestures with the muzzle of his gun to his hands. “Put them up,” he says slowly.

 

The American smiles again, such an unnerving replica of his previous one it’s as though he’d painted it on. “Sorry about this, Yasin.”

 

A flicker of movement behind the American catches Yasin’s eye, and it’s only then that he remembers there had been three infiltrators, only then that he realises his body is shielding the American completely. All too late, as the American’s clasped hands collide with his jaw. As Yasin sees stars, the American props up his body whilst gunshots echoed and ricocheted through the corridors.

* * *

 

Illya couldn’t believe it had worked. Solo’s attack on the guard had indeed caused the other guards to bunch forwards and attack, providing easy targets for him and Gaby whilst Solo escaped injury by using the guard’s body as a shield. Even Illya had to admit, the plan had been rather inspired.

 

As the metallic smells of blood and gunpowder intermingles, silence washes over the three of them.

 

Solo smirks at Illya, who shakes his head.

 

“Don't, Cowboy.”

 

“I just think it's funny how my ideas have such a tendency to save us all,” Solo says, affecting a look of concern for his jacket and the blood spattered across it.

 

Illya rolls his eyes and opens his mouth to point out that whether or not it was Solo’s idea, it was he and Gaby who actually enacted it. If it had been Solo alone, the ending of the plan would have been a dead American and a group of jubilant Wasp guards. He wants to remark that one of those outcomes can still be achieved.

 

But, before he can, Gaby holds up a hand and hushes them both. From elsewhere in the base, there is the sound of gunfire and more shouts.    
  
“Unless Wasp has started playing pretend, I think the MAH are here,” she says.

* * *

 

 

MAH forces raid the entire base. As the three of them leave, they see Wasp employees handcuffed and marched through the tunnels, and MAH operatives sorting through the rooms one by one. Napoleon doesn't envy them that, but his hands do twitch slightly when he wonders if there's anything worth stealing in the cavernous depths of the base.

 

They take a MAH car to Ağva, where they check into a tiny hotel that overlooks the sea. There's a telephone at the front desk, which Gaby charms the owners into letting her use, and after Napoleon charms them into giving him free reign of their kitchen. It's late, after all, and he wouldn't want to put them to any trouble

 

He and Illya move into the kitchen whilst Gaby talks to Waverly, and Napoleon clatters around as Illya watches.

 

“Do you actually know how to cook?” Illya asks, leaning with an unnecessarily imposing posture in the doorway.

 

Napoleon continues to work on the task at hand. “I do, actually,” he says, mimicking Illya’s sullen tone. “You can drop the strong and sulking act, by the way. I know you're happy the mission went so smoothly.”

 

“You do not know that.”

 

As Illya seems to be arguing for the sake of it, Napoleon ignores him. Instead, he sets an array of vegetables on the side, and fetches a knife. “Chop these, will you, Peril?”

 

Illya takes a moment before he does as asked, starting to slice a carrot. “What are you making?”

 

“Fish pilâki,” Napoleon says, finally locating some olive oil. “Had it at dinner with Kaya once, and then had the chef teach me how to make it.” He pauses. “Gaby likes fish, and since she saved our lives today, I think she deserves a treat.”

 

Illya doesn't say anything in response, but when he catches Napoleon watching him expectantly, says: “What now?”

 

Napoleon takes the carrot and mushroom from him and gestures to the celery root. “Dice that, if you would. The smaller the better.”

 

When he glances back at Illya, he hasn't moved. “I don't-"

 

“Know how to dice,” Napoleon finishes, grinning at the faint flush that rises on Illya’s cheeks. “I suppose they didn't teach you anything other than throwing meat in a pot and boiling it in Mother Russia.” As he's talking, he takes the knife and sets to work.

 

“Was not a requisite skill in KGB,” Illya mutters. “Did not realise CIA offered such training. Must be why you are losing the space race.”

 

A laugh escapes Napoleon. “No, no, the CIA didn't send me on any culinary courses. They wouldn't fund any of my hobbies. Now, make yourself useful and find me some sugar and salt. Then tell me which is which.”

 

“You really don't speak Turkish,” Illya says, a derisive edge to his voice, and Napoleon supposes he earned that. 

 

“It's all Greek to me,” he says, grinning when he hears a soft snort from Illya.

 

By the time half an hour’s gone by and the food’s just about ready, Gaby wanders in. 

 

“Smells good,” she says, smirking at Napoleon. “Better than your last attempt.”

 

“Peril’s a far better sous chef than you,” Napoleon says by way of explanation. “And I have a proper kitchen to work in here."

 

“What did Waverly say?” Illya asks, barely waiting for Napoleon to finish speaking.

 

Gaby smiles. “He says it sounds like we did an excellent job. Apparently, Perkel’s been in touch with him to say how pleased he is with how the raid went. He believes we've prevented risings in Istanbul and Ankara.”

 

_ A little exaggeration never hurt anyone, _ Napoleon thinks, privately, as he begins to plate up the meal.

 

“We have the day off tomorrow,” Gaby adds, and Napoleon tempers a smile at how excited she sounds. “Then, the next day a driver will be here to take us to the airport. We'll be flying to New York to debrief with Waverly in person.”

 

“Beach day tomorrow, then?” Napoleon surmises.

 

“Of course,” Gaby says, just as Illya adds: “perhaps not.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> got some really lovely comments for the last chapter yall, thank u so much!  
> also, we hit 100 kudos on a tmfu fic in 2018! wack  
> really really cant wait to post the next chapter, it has some of my absolute fave moments in it with gaby and napoleon and napoleon and illya in particular  
> also, there'll be an appearance from a special guest!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry abt the slight delay and the slightly shorter chapter, think of it as an interlude, maybe?

Ağva, Şile District

8th June, 1963

 

It seems Napoleon underestimated exactly how enthused Gaby is with the prospect of a beach day, although he's bluntly updated by his door opening at some horrendous hour that morning and a pair of swimming trunks slapping him in the face.

 

“Time and tide wait for no man!” Gaby calls, and then the door slams shut and Napoleon rolls over and goes back to sleep, just to spite her.

  
  


Eventually, he does wander down to the beach. He spies Gaby and Illya without much trouble. Illya has sheltered under a large umbrella, the most casual Napoleon has even seen him; not only in linen, but with the sleeves of his shirt pushed up so that the muscles in his foremans flex as he lifts his drink.

 

“Worried about becoming red literally as well as politically?” Napoleon asks as he approaches, enjoying the fact that Illya can't ignore him, and instead scans him briefly before returning his gaze to the ocean.

 

“You don't have your trunks,” Illya notes, the leisurely way he speaks betraying his amusement. “Gaby will not be impressed.”

 

“I'll reimburse her,” Napoleon says, waving a dismissive hand as he spots Gaby walking towards them, drink in hand as though she stepped off the pages of a summer catalogue.

 

“You're here!” She grins, but there's a hint of calculation in it. “Come down to the sea with me. Illya won't.”

 

There's a sound of protest from Illya. Napoleon looks at him, sees the fond look he shoots at Gaby when he thinks they're both too engaged in the conversation to notice and lets impulse guide him. 

 

“We can't have that.” He kicks off his shoes, leaves them next to Illya and rolls up the sleeves of his shirt past his elbows. “Miss Teller, would you do me the honour of a race?”

 

_ It's a game _ , he thinks, when Gaby’s grin widens in response and she sets down her drink.  _ It's a game it's a game, _ he thinks, when Illya finally takes his eyes off her to look at him instead, even if there is something other than fondness in those guarded eyes.  _ It's a game and we're all playing it,  _ he tells himself, launching into a sprint without warning, hearing Gaby’s shocked laughter as she follows.

 

His feet pound into the sand, leaving no room for more thoughts in his head. He focuses on the beating sun, the ocean breeze blowing salt through his hair and the fact that he knows he's won this childish race when the surf laps at his ankles and soaks the ankles of his trousers. He turns around to see Gaby still sprinting, mouth in an open smile and her hair streaming out behind her. He catches her when she's a step away from him, lifts her up by the waist and swings her around as her giggles overlap with the waves. Seconds later, he lets her go. She lands in the water, up to her knees already and regards him for only a moment before swinging her arm in an upwards arc and soaking him with water.

 

The droplets catch the sunlight as they fly towards him, iridescent in midair and Napoleon sees Gaby and the joy that wipes the lines from her face and remembers that she is  _ young _ , and as the spray coats him and water runs down his face, Napoleon can't help but feel young too, laughing with her in the first moment they've shared not just as agents, but as themselves.

 

They're both soaked when they step out of the water, their clothes clinging to them. Napoleon acts the gentlemen and lends Gaby his sodden shirt to at least wrap around herself, as he notes the sudden wariness to the movement of her eyes. As they dry off, they wander the length of the beach, chatting with idle jibes as Gaby collects seashells and Napoleon wonders if it's the first time she's been on a beach, thinks it must be, but doesn't ask.

* * *

Waverly turns up.

 

Illya’s still sitting on the beach, a drink growing warm next to him as he stares at the horizon and tells himself he isn't searching for the figures of Gaby and Solo in the crowds. Lost in thought, but still enough of a spy to know when he's being watched. Waverly’s ten feet away when Illya turns his head to look at him. There is only a brief pause in Waverly’s movements before he resumes his ambling pace and claims the chair next to Illya in the shade.

 

“Agent.”

 

“Commander.”

 

Waverly chuckles lightly. “Yes. Yes, I suppose I am. But no need for all that, Kuryakin. We're on a second name basis at the very least by now.” He looks relaxed, eyes hidden by sunglasses, but Illya can see the lines crinkled at the corners of his eyes. “Where are your illustrious teammates?”

 

Illya gestures vaguely down the beach, reaching for his drink.

 

“Good for them, this is a good chance to blow off some steam.” Waverly turns his head towards Illya. “Ah, you didn't fancy a dip?”

 

“No, is not for me,” Illya says, casting his eyes down at the sand.

 

“You're a man who knows what he likes, I respect that about you, Kuryakin,” Waverly says, looking away again. “Better that than to be like Solo, still acting like he's twenty with time to make his choices. Of course, dear Miss Teller has a fine head on her shoulders, and I'd say she's on the right path to being as self-assured as you, Kuryakin. That's no small thing.”

 

Before Illya can work out a reply, or even begin to absorb Waverly’s assessment, he's talking again.

 

“Speak of the devil, here they come now.”

 

Illya glances up. They both look breathless, both of them with their hair and clothes soaked. Gaby’s covered somewhat by Solo’s shirt, dwarfing her, but she doesn't seem to care as she laughs loudly at some aside Solo mutters to her.

 

Solo. He's practically glowing under the sun, his grin bright and his skin gleaming from the sheen of water. And he's shirtless, of course. For a moment, Illya can't look away from the way his muscles shift or how the waistband of his trousers hugs his waist. Until, that is, Napoleon- Solo meets his gaze, eyes the same burning blue as the sea behind him and Illya breaks the contact, tilting his head slightly towards Waverly as though to warn Solo before he does anything particularly  _ Solo _ .

 

“Mr Waverly!” Gaby looks surprised, pleasantly so, and not in the least confused, but the look she shoots Illya is enough to let him know she didn't know about this visit either. “I thought we were going to meet you in New York.”

 

“Well, yes, that was the plan,” Waverly admits, surrendering his seat to her. “But then I decided to hop on a plane instead to congratulate you all on a job well done. Much less of a hassle than last time, and far less strenuous on the U.N.C.L.E coffers.”

 

Illya catches Solo’s eyebrow quirk upwards whilst he snatches a towel off the back of his chair.

 

“All due respect, sir, but I hope you're not expecting us to debrief here and now,” Solo says, settling the towel around his shoulders and leaning both hands on the back of Illya’s chair. “We were promised a day off.”

 

“Not at all,” Waverly says, raising a hand in a placating gesture. “No, your time is your own. Well, yours is. Miss Teller, I was wondering whether I could borrow you for a few hours?”

 

Gaby smiles, because she is a delight and knows how to please people, and accepts Waverly’s outstretched hand to help her to her feet. “I would be delighted. I'll see you later, boys.”

 

Illya watches them go whilst Solo steals her chair, and waits for a moment until an look of indignation crosses his face.

 

“Damn.” Solo cranes his neck, presumably to spot Gaby in the crowd. “She took my shirt.”

 

“It's a hard life, Cowboy,” Illya says, drily, settling back on his chair. Even with his eyes closed, he can feel Solo’s eyes on him. “What is it?”

 

“Well, I only had one on me.”

 

“One what?”

 

There's a sigh. “Don't be facetious, Peril. One shirt. I only had one shirt with me.”

 

“Then you will be forced to walk around and draw attention to yourself. This will be difficult for you, I'm sure.”

 

“You're really no help, Red.” 

 

Illya opens his mouth, about to shoot back, but stiffens when he feels a hand brush across the back of his neck. 

 

“And you've caught the sun.”

 

When he opens his eyes, Solo is gone, and Illya is left wondering how he never even heard him get up.

* * *

 

9th June, 1963

It turns out that what had been meant by a flight back to America had not been the same first class commercial airline flight they'd taken to Istanbul. What had actually been meant was a flight back on the U.N.C.L.E, state-of-the-art private jet.

Waverly only mentions it once they arrive at the private air strip, and Illya can see the remark on the tip of Solo’s tongue about that being to reduce the amount of time they all had to spend listening to Illya fume on the ridiculousness of private spending. Thankfully, he doesn't say it.

Solo doesn't say much for the entire flight, which is odd. Instead, he sits by one of the windows, some papers on the table in front of him, occasionally fetching refills for his scotch, but otherwise appearing deep in thought. 

Illya tries not to dwell on it too much. He talks to Gaby instead, helping her to work on her Russian, with Waverly interjecting every so often. It's a little strange to hold a Russian lesson without Solo speaking his mind as well. Gaby’s been picking it up as quickly as can be expected; she's working hard to learn the alphabet and reads in Russian as much as she can, and her speaking is progressing with staggering, accented syllables. Soon, Illya thinks, their team will have a second common language to speak in, and he can't think how useful that will be. More and more, he finds himself believing that U.N.C.L.E could be something that lasts longer than a fanciful mission in Rome.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i really really really hope yall enjoyed this one bc as i said, it has some of my fave moments so far. can u guess them or tell me yours?
> 
> thanks as usual to everyone who's commented or left a kudos, you're what fuels the majority of my creativity and you're all excellent!!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kind of an admin chapter, but im glad yall enjoyed the last one so much! ;)

U.N.C.L.E Headquarters, New York

10th June, 1963

 

They’re given a day’s respite to recover from jet lag, but are expected at HQ to meet with Waverly at quarter past eight the following morning. After a mission full of late nights and late mornings, it’s a novel experience. Despite the summer heat, Illya cuts linen from his wardrobe immediately, Napoleon notes with a degree of disappointment. 

 

Then again, at least he’s not back in the polo neck. 

 

Instead, it’s a long-sleeved, navy button down and grey slacks. Napoleon wants to suggest the ensemble might benefit from a dash of red, but Gaby exits Waverly’s office before he can open his mouth and beckons them to enter.

 

Napoleon glances from Illya to her. “How long have you been in there?”

 

“I came in early,” she says, ignoring his surprise.

 

“But Del Floria’s only opens at eight,” he says, frowning as he follows Illya into the room.

 

“Dear me, Solo,” Waverly says with his customary smile, the corners of his mouth being pulled down as though his inherent Britishness is preventing him from showing a sliver too much emotion. “I hope you don’t think this is a ‘one way in, one way out’ situation.”

 

There are three seats in front of Waverly’s desk; oak, by the looks of it, and Gaby takes the centre, Illya on the right and Napoleon on the left. Napoleon grins at Waverly, only briefly.

 

“Hardly. I’m just surprised you didn’t tell us about these other secret entrances.”

 

“That’s a good point, Solo,” Waverly says, leaning back in his chair; leather, and looking infinitely more comfortable than what Napoleon’s having to sit on. “But I’d actually scheduled the assessment of U.N.C.L.E logistics for later in the meeting, so if you’d hold fire until then?”   
  


Napoleon waves him on, Waverly nods. “Now, then, team. From what I’ve heard from our friends in the East and from Miss Teller, your first official outing seems to have run rather smoothly.”

 

In the corner of his eye, Napoleon catches a twitch at the corner of Illya’s mouth. At a guess, Illya doesn’t think their spell of good luck will last.

 

“From your reports, your professional relationships seem to be developing nicely.”

 

Oh yes, that  _ had _ been a fun way to spend a day off.

 

“Have any of you got anything to add on that front? Any grievances to air?”

 

Napoleon waits. The grandfather clock in the corner of Waverly’s office ticks on, and he chances a glance at Illya, given their rocky moments. Illya’s stare is directed out of the window at the city skyline, completely casual, and moments later Waverly claps his hands together.

 

“Good stuff, chaps. And lady. Now, about this Wasp base. Solo, you mentioned a map?”

 

All eyes are on him now, and Napoleon grins, particularly at the looks on Illya and Gaby’s faces. “Did I forget to mention that?” He asks, and doesn’t wait for a response before looking back at Waverly. “Did you find a map like I asked?”

 

“Ah, yes, we did.” Waverly picks up the receiver on his desk and dials. “Section Four, please.” A pause. “Send Miss Prinsen up, if you would. Thank you.” As he sets the phone down, Waverly glances at Napoleon. “Perhaps you’d like to explain to your colleagues what we’re being so cryptic about.”

 

Napoleon breathes deeply. “I suppose.” He shifts, only slightly, to better address Illya and Gaby. “I found a hidden room in one of the offices in the Wasp base, and in that was a map of the world, with various locations marked on it. I had a chance to look over some of the files we took before we handed them all over, and I believe these locations relate to other Wasp bases. Whether they’re only in the planning permission stage or already established, I don’t know.”

 

“Quite,” Waverly says, clasping his hands together and resting them on the desk. “Trouble is that the MAH is refusing to hand over that very helpful map until all of their folks have examined it within an inch of its life. How clearly can you remember what you saw, Solo?”

 

A smile tugs on the corner of his mouth. “The CIA did always say I had a particular talent for recalling and replicating information of this nature.” There’s a cold weight in his stomach as he says it, like there should be an unpleasant memory attached to the fact, but he comes up empty and is drawn back into the moment when Miss Prinsen enters the room.

 

“Ah, team, this is Miss Esther Prinsen, our top analyst and Number One of Section Four,” Waverly says as he clears a few papers to the side of his desk so that Miss Prinsen can lay out the map rolled in her hands.

 

Napoleon had guessed as much from the white badge on her jacket lapel, much like the one hidden in the folds of Waverly’s jacket, hanging on the back of the door, only his has NUMBER ONE and SECTION ONE emblazoned on it. He’s still not sure what that actually means.

 

“Does this match your requirements, Mr Solo?” Esther asks, the map laid out.

 

Napoleon stands and takes the proffered pen from Waverly. “That’s just perfect, thank you, Esther. And it’s Solo, please.” He smiles at her as he leans over the desk.

 

She simply arches an eyebrow back at him, nods at Waverly, and leaves the office.

 

Gaby stifles a laugh, and Napoleon focuses on the map instead.

 

“Eight countries were marked in blue,” he says, noting crosses in the appropriate areas. “ America, Russia, Britain, Holland, Greece, Spain, Italy and Yugoslavia. Then, in yellow, there were far more. Ireland, India, France, Japan, Germany, Venezuela, Kenya. To name a few.” He continues to mark crosses in corresponding colours, until he hands the pen back to Waverly and stills, hands still braced on the desk. “From what I could tell, the blue areas are where Wasp has a foothold.” There’s a sharp pain at his temple, and he rubs it absently, blinking for a moment. “Yellow seems to mean it’s a work in progress.”

 

“Yes.” Waverly says, musing, as rubs his chin and studies the map. “Miss Prinsen and her staff have been thinking along the same lines, only in a few degrees more detail. Thank you for that, Solo. That’s a great help.”

 

Napoleon nods, both temples throbbing, and sits back down. “Any time.”

 

Waverly gathers the map off the desk, away from Gaby and Illya’s prying eyes and eyes the three of them, smiling his non-smile again. “We’ll keep you informed about that conundrum as it develops. In the present, we need to discuss your role here at U.N.C.L.E. 

 

“We have eight sections here, and at some point I imagine you’ll be directly involved with all of them. For the moment, the three of you are in Section Two: Operations and Enforcement. This means that you are field agents who also plan your missions in the action, which is one of the main points you differ from Section Three on. We need you to be our sharpest, brightest, and most capable agents, with no small amount of initiative.” Waverly allows himself a small chuckle. “So far, you’ve proved yourselves entirely competent. Section Four is Intelligence and Communications; they’ll provide you with mission statements and dossiers before you go jetting off, whilst Section Three, Enforcement and Intelligence, will provide back-up and information during missions. Section Five, Communication and Security, will be along for your toughest missions to provide guards in the field.” Waverly pauses to pick up a sheaf of papers and glance through them.

 

“It’s unlikely you’ll run into Section Six; they’ll mostly be cleaning up after you. They have done twice already.”

 

Napoleon feels a sense of satisfaction that he is, at least, not a glorified janitor.

 

“Section Seven…” Waverly smiles tightly. “Well, let’s hope you don’t need to talk to them. They occupy the whitestone building nextdoor, and they’re also an out of hours entrance to HQ.”

 

Gaby smirks when Napoleon shoots her a glance.

 

“Finally, Section Eight is where all the toys are,” Waverly says, lightening again. “They’ll provide you with any fancy tools you might need for missions.” He pauses, opening a drawer for the papers. “And  _ only _ for missions.” His eyes flick to Napoleon, who smiles back at him demurely.

 

“And, of course, there’s Section One, Policy and Operations. That’s me. We decide what missions you go on and the whys and wherefores of everything. Nothing you need to worry about.”

 

It’s exactly that kind of talk that Napoleon doesn’t like.  _ No questions, Solo. You do as I say and then you come back for more orders. It’s that simple, surely you even you can do that much. _

 

His headache’s growing a little overwhelming, though, so he doesn’t voice his concerns.

 

“You’re a smart bunch,” Waverly’s saying, like they don’t know that already. “So I don’t need to spell out everything for you. We won’t bother with a tour. This top floor is Sections One and Two, so we’ll be seeing a lot of each other. The first floor is Three and Four, ground floor is Five and Six. As I’ve said, Section Seven is situated nextdoor, and Section Eight is a sub-level.”

 

“There were two sub-levels shown in the elevator,” Illya says, and if his head wasn’t threatening to split open, Napoleon would cheer him for questioning authority, however mildly.

 

“Well, below Section Eight, there is a private docking area,” Waverly admits, hesitates, then adds: “And there’s a helipad on the roof, but I doubt you’ll ever have need of that.” Waverly pauses, presses his lips together and scans them. “Now, if we’re done with that, I’d like to move on to business.”

 

“By all means,” Gaby says, and judging by her tone, she’s had this rambling introduction once already.

 

Waverly nods and picks up another file. “I hope you're all feeling rested, because this next little job involves some rather dangerous people.” He hands the file to Gaby, who opens it as Illya and Napoleon both crane their necks to see.

 

There's a beat of silence.

 

“The mob?” Napoleon asks, arching an eyebrow. “I thought the Feds covered them.”

 

“Yes, and until four years ago, the public at large didn’t even know the Mafia exists,” Waverly says, lifting his eyebrows. “We still don’t have a clear idea of how they operate.” His eyes flick to Napoleon. “At least, none that any agencies are willing to disclose to me. However, we won’t be stepping on the Bureau’s toes. I have good reason to suspect that a rather prominent member of the Mafia has ties to Wasp.” He sighs, steeples his fingers and settles back in his chair. 

 

“Intelligence for this mission is limited; I encourage you to push boundaries to find what you can before you initiate any meetings. I have no idea how long this mission could last, but your goal is simple: find whoever has connections to Wasp, learn what you can, and eliminate them. Wasp is a fledgling organisation, but is gaining footholds globally and fast, we can’t be sure, but we can assume that an alliance with the Mafia would only serve to quicken this progress.” His eyes, framed by laughter lines so deceptively that he often looks the part of an absent-minded uncle, harden as he scans them. 

 

“We still don’t know the extent of what we’re dealing with when it comes to both of these organisations, only that they’re incredibly dangerous. Do what you must with whatever skills you have, that includes you, Mr. Solo.”

 

With that, the meeting is apparently over. 

 

“Any further information I can provide you with is in that dossier,” Waverly says as he waves them out. “Please, don’t bother me again until this mission is completed. We don’t want another Rome Affair.”

 

The door to his office clicks softly shut behind Illya, and for a moment the three of them regard each other in silence.

 

“So, how about those U.N.C.L.E-provided apartments?” Napoleon says, feigning levity.

 

“What did Waverly mean, ‘that includes you, Solo’?” Gaby asks, ignoring him completely.

 

Illya looms behind her, lending a certain iron emphasis to her question, and Napoleon heaves a heavy sigh. 

 

“Alright, we can talk about that.” He tilts his head to the elevator. “But can we do so over coffee?”

 

He lets them conclude for themselves that he is as tired and jetlagged as they are, because they don’t need to know that he feels faint for lack of fresh air and the intense pressure in his head, and that he needs a few moments to piece together his story of how he was a minor member of the Irish Mob.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope yall liked it, and the way we're headed for the next mission!  
> also apologies for the kind of (and accidental) cliff hanger!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the slight delay in an update, have an extra long chapter to make up for it!

The U.N.C.L.E Headquarters has an entire street to itself. The three of them exit Del Floria’s part of an impressive brownstone, and Napoleon regards the whitestone building next to it with fresh eyes. There resides Section Seven, whatever that is. He's tempted to ask Gaby, seeing as she's the only one of them that's entered the building, but there's a determined set to her face and he deduces that she's not in the mood for small talk.

 

“How are you finding New York?” He asks Illya instead, because he doesn't care if Illya’s not in the mood for conversation.

 

Illya is frowning, but that appears to be his resting face so Napoleon ignores it. “Crowded,” Illya says. “And loud." There's a pause. “But I appreciate its layout. Very easy to navigate. I can only assume this is because otherwise all you Americans would get lost.”

 

A small chuckle escapes Napoleon, feeling revived in the fresh air. “I guess I can't say you're totally wrong,” he allows. When he glances at her, Gaby seems to have taken an interest in their conversation. “And you, Miss Teller?”

 

She shrugs. “I've not seen enough of it to know yet. But people here do seem obsessed with their clothes.”

 

“Yes.” Napoleon sighs as he tugs at the cuffs of his jacket. “A real tragedy, that.”

 

The gesture earns him a laugh from Gaby, and a shake of the head from Illya, so Napoleon counts the effort a victory.

 

They end up at a cafe, busy with people seeking refuge from the summer heat and buzzing with chatter. Napoleon’s never been here, but then he's not had much time for coffee in New York in the last decade. Illya hunches over a table in the corner whilst Napoleon orders their drinks, and Gaby lingers by Illya to tease him.

 

“Shall we have a look at this file?” Napoleon suggests when he returns to them.

 

“Here?” Gaby asks, her eyebrows drawing together.

 

“Should be fine,” Illya assures her, his hand hovering by her for a moment. “In a place like this, with so many people and conversations, highly unlikely anyway could survey us, even if they wanted to.”

 

It's another reminder that however much faith Waverly is willing to put in Gaby, she's still new to the game and there's a lot of tricks she won't learn until she's been in the field as long as Napoleon and Illya. Still, she's a quick study.

 

Gaby nods and pulls the file from her bag to lay it on the table, both Napoleon and Illya shifting the coffees to make room. There really isn't much to work with. There's a list of names of people with possible Mafia ties, possible members of the Mafia, all of whom are possibly the person looking to set up a deal with Wasp. More pages reveal locations suspected of being Mafia favourites. Most of the information seems to originate from the Kefauver Hearings, so it's only the three of them and every American who owns a television set that's privy to the information. 

 

“It's something, at least,” says Gaby, who, Napoleon thinks, might be being a tad optimistic with ‘something’.

 

“What did Waverly mean about you and the Mob?” Illya’s looking at Napoleon, eyes narrowed in accusation, just waiting find out Napoleon’s ruined this mission before it's begun.

 

“Well, two things.” Napoleon pauses, feeling no small degree of irritation with Waverly for forcing his hand like this. “One would be that presumably the CIA also have files and investigations regarding the Mafia.” Strange, that despite holding this knowledge for years, he no longer felt a compulsion to keep the CIA’s secret. “Largely because they entered into deals with members of the Mafia during the war, and a couple of years ago. To my knowledge.”

 

“How can you be sure?” Illya asks. He doesn’t look surprised, his expression is too guarded, but he  _ sounds _ doubtful.

 

Napoleon flashes him a grin. “Like you said, I had a long leash in those days.”

 

Illya scoffs. “And you did nothing with this information?” His gaze holds Napoleon, and Napoleon gains a sudden, unwelcome insight into how his targets feel when they realise they’ve been conned. 

 

The sense of being undermined by a simple question, just as he was in that cafe in Berlin, is becoming a shade too close to familiar.

 

“I did not,” Napoleon confirms, glancing away from Illya to sip his coffee. He doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t owe him that.

 

Gaby doesn’t allow the tension to grow. “And what was the second thing?” 

 

Napoleon looks at her, the expectant expression and notes she’s jotted down in the file. “I haven’t finished with the first thing,” he says after a moment, setting down his cup. “In 1942, the U.S Navy entered an agreement with Lucky Luciano to have the Mafia keep the East Coast safe from sabotage.”

 

“What does that have to do with the CIA?” Gaby asks, not looking up from her notes. 

 

A wry smile tugs at his mouth, but instead Napoleon arches an eyebrow. “You think Naval Intelligence can make that kind of deal without a CIA go ahead?”

 

“And what happened a couple of years ago?” Illya asks.

 

For a moment, Napoleon is reminded that these are very American secrets that he’s revealing to two people from the other side of the Iron Curtain. In a heartbeat, his conviction is unsettled and he finds himself unable to talk.

 

_ Absolute loyalty, Solo. Who are you loyal to? _

 

_ You. _

 

_ And? _

 

_ The CIA, above all else. _

 

It had seemed so simple.

 

“Solo?” Gaby’s frowning at him, and he doesn’t have to look at Illya to know he’ll be watching him with that heavy gaze.

 

“Sorry.” The word escapes him in a rush, like the pressure to be silent lifting broke a dam. He rubs at his forehead with jerky motions that he only calms when he catches Gaby’s eyebrows drawing together. “Coffee wasn’t the right choice on a day like this,” he says, gesturing to the sunny day outside without turning his head. “A couple- Two years ago, in 1961, the director of the Office of Security at the CIA commissioned several Mafia assassins in a number of attempts to kill Fidel Castro.”

 

“They did?” Gaby’s eyes shift between Napoleon and Illya, like this might be some elaborate prank.

 

Napoleon shrugs. “They didn’t succeed, if that helps.”

 

She fixes him with an unimpressed look, shakes her head, and adds to her notes.

 

“I wonder if there is more information like this,” Illya muses from his corner.

 

Napoleon shrugs again. “Short of breaking into the CIA, you’re going to have to keep wondering.”

 

There’s a pause, and clearly all of them are thinking the same thing.

 

“Waverly did say that we should do whatever we must,” Gaby says slowly.

 

“With whatever skills we have,” Napoleon adds, nodding, and finding himself a fan of the idea.

 

Illya, however, is frowning. “And cause an international incident when an MI6 and a KGB agent are discovered infiltrating a CIA base? No. Is stupid idea.”

 

Napoleon purses his lips and studies the table appraisingly. “I could always ask nicely.”

 

Gaby raises a hand, index finger pointed at him threateningly, and Illya looks ready to flip the table, but Napoleon beats them both to it.

 

“Sanders knows me, he kind of trusts me. The CIA knows me. They’ll be aware of this mission, it’s happening on their territory. The worst they can do is say no,” he says, in his most reasonable voice, and bites back a smirk when both of his teammates settle back in their seats. “Although…” He tilts his head. “The second thing might be relevant here. I was, briefly, a member of the Irish mob.”

 

Gaby stares at him, open mouthed. “ _ What? _ ”

 

Illya simply drops his head into his hands, in what might be the most dramatic display of emotion Napoleon’s ever seen him perform.

 

“All the kids were doing it when I was growing up,” Napoleon says, grinning at both of them, headache fading again. “I didn’t pick up crime in the army, let’s put it that way, and where I grew up, if you wanted to get into crime then you needed a gang to run with.” He straightens in his sit, looks between Illya and Gaby with a sobered expression. “Honestly, I’m not sure if it’ll be any help. Something tells me the Irish Mob and the Mafia aren’t all that alike.”

 

“I think it’s something to bear in mind,” Gaby says, sarcasm dripping from her words.

 

Illya doesn’t say anything, alternates only between staring ahead and sneaking glances at Napoleon. Maybe he’s dealing with the fact that despite all his efforts with the KGB to prove that he won’t follow in the corrupt footsteps of his parents, fate seems intent on pushing him onto that very path. It seems to be the kind of non-problem people who are born wealthy fixate on a lot.

 

“Anyway,” Napoleon says, drawing out the word to disguise his relief at the lack of prying from either of them. “Why don’t we start talking plans?”

* * *

 

11th June, 1963

CIA Offices, Manhattan, New York

 

Napoleon doesn’t send warning that he’s going to be showing up on the CIA’s doorstep, because he has no way of contacting them. He needs a direct line to their office, like the one between the White House and the Kremlin since the Bay of Pigs fiasco. 

 

Then again, maybe not.

 

It occurs to him only when he’s waiting to be let into the nondescript building that the CIA may not even house offices there anymore. He finds it oddly relieving, this disconnect from the last decade, but doesn’t have time to dwell on it, as an agent opens the door and waves him in.

 

For the first time that he’s been in the building, Napoleon pays special attention to the rooms and corridors and the people who populate them. He tries to note the purpose of each room, and which agents look like pen pushers and which ones appear to be carrying guns. It’s a bit of a haphazard investigation, but it’s better than nothing.

 

There’s a lot of stairs in between him and Sanders, and of course Sanders doesn’t come down to his level. He doesn’t even allow Napoleon into his office right away. Instead, he has to sit outside in an uncomfortable chair and wave away with a polite smile offers of coffee. Who knows what they’re putting in them?

 

When Sanders finally finds time in his busy schedule for him, and the attempt at gaining control of the meeting is embarrassingly obvious, Napoleon is ushered inside like he’s about to meet some momentous figure.

 

Sanders is standing at the window, a cigar between his stubby fingers as he stares at the skyline. The silhouette is not a handsome one, but, in the orange blaze of the dying day, there is something impressive about the set of his jaw. Napoleon supposes that makes sense. Sanders is of the generation of men who grew up in the Great War, who fought in the second, with more years and experience and far more to lose than the whelps like Napoleon who joined up. 

 

“Can’t say I’m surprised to see you back here,” Sanders says, still staring out the window, pale blue smoke shrouding the air around him.

 

“Is that so?” Napoleon replies, folding his arms and leaning against the doorframe, angling only his head towards Sanders.

 

He doesn’t appear to be armed; one hand in his pocket and smoking with the other, his suit jacket discarded over the back of his chair. If he had a weapon, Napoleon would be able to see it. And Napoleon is younger than Sanders, fresh from the field. 

 

_ If I wanted to, _ Napoleon thinks, quite casually,  _ I could kill him. _

 

But he doesn’t, not in the moment, because he’s rather curious about what it is Sanders has to say. Of course, Sanders may well know that and that could easily have been his motivation for making such a remark.  _ Strange, _ Napoleon thinks,  _ that these mind games never seemed important before. _

 

“It is.” Sanders turns, feet planted firmly apart, and regards Napoleon for a long moment. “I figured that either U.N.C.L.E would realise how unprepared it is for this kind of work, or you’d realise where you’re better off.”

 

Napoleon huffs a soft laugh. “Let’s call it a little of column A, and a little of column B. I’m here to ask nicely if you’d be willing to participate in a bit of inter-agency co-operation.”

 

“This is about that Mafia job the Limey’s got you working on, isn’t it?” Sanders grumbles, which is really his main form of communication.

 

“That’s it,” Napoleon says, maintaining an agreeable front, despite the growing urge to walk right out of the building, mission intelligence be damned. “Is there anything you can tell me about them? Anything at all. About how they work, who they are, who they work with, liaisons with the government-”

 

“ _ That _ is all very high above your pay grade, Solo,” Sanders tells him, interrupting in his characteristic way, finishing one cigar and pulling another one from a silver case, the end of which he taps on the case. “And that’s if you were still with the Agency, which you’re not.”

 

Napoleon feels a flare of irritation of that, and keeps his expression even as he clamps down on the feeling. “I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that you’re the one who traded me away so you can pretend to get on with Oleg,” he says lightly, cocking his head to the side.

 

“Don’t act like you understand the finer points of what I do here, Solo,” Sanders says, sounding almost weary. “Anyway.” The cigar keeps tapping on the case, the noise flat and predictable until it melds with the hum of traffic beneath the window. “I don’t know if I can tell you anything, given the circumstances. That, and even if I was inclined to, that information isn’t kept here.”

 

And  _ that _ catches Napoleon’s attention, and he knows a lost cause when he sees one. “In that case-” He straightens, tugs on the cuffs of his jacket. “I’ll leave you to your busy day,” he says, arching a pointed eyebrow at the empty, almost bare, office. 

 

“Solo.”

 

There’s an odd quality to Sanders’ voice, one Napoleon hasn’t heard before, and he turns, compelled by curiosity to the point that he hopes if he sees his expression he’ll be able to interpret better. Sanders’ voice had sounded almost strained, his mouth is slightly agape, and his eyebrows are drawing together into a heavy frown. It’s an uncomfortably genuine display of emotion, when Napoleon’s never known the man to say an honest word to him.

 

“Sanders,” he replies, when it doesn’t seem that there’ll be a follow-up. 

 

“You’re giving up so easily?” Sanders asks after a moment, recovering himself and settling into the old pattern of hiding any hint of truth from him.

 

Napoleon shrugs, or goes to, then thinks it’ll ruin the line of his suit, so he spreads his hands instead. “What can I say? I’m not emotionally invested in this situation.” He waves over his shoulder at Sanders, leaving his office door wide open, and indicates to the agent waiting outside that he’s leaving.

 

He’s escorted into the New York evening and sets off down the street with almost a spring in his step. At least, he didn’t lie. It’s a little relieving to find that he genuinely doesn’t care how this goes, and in hindsight he wasn’t particularly worried about the Istanbul Affair either. After a decade of having to worry about a million things that had nothing to do with him, the shift is welcome.

 

What matters, what  _ really  _ matters, isn’t the Mafia or some world-threatening organisation, not Sanders nor Waverly or anyone else. What matters is that Sanders gave him the most important piece of information, the reason he’d agreed to go back to the CIA in the first place. 

 

_ That information isn’t kept here. _

 

The line circles round and round in his head, but it encourages rather than deters him, because that means they don’t keep any sensitive information there, which includes  _ his  _ file. His file, with all the sensitive information in it about what he’s done for the last decade, with all the answers he’s searching for. Whatever it was that meant he was such a dutiful,  _ prolific _ agent is locked away in that file, it has to be, and once he has that information Napoleon can cut his ties and be done with all of this.

 

When he stops walking, he finds himself at a railing looking out over the Hudson as dusk falls. It occurs to him that he’s not far from 59th Street, not far from Hell’s Kitchen at the apartment he grew up in. Napoleon turns his head away, looks north towards the Upper West Side. He thinks about evenings whiled away there, at shows or listening to lectures, acting so far above his station it’s a miracle he never tripped and fell.

 

If he cuts his ties, he probably won’t be able to come back to New York again, not for years. The thought stings, makes his heart ache a little, but he reminds himself there’s always London. And Paris, and Rome, and places he never made it to because the CIA caught him and leashed him and he hasn’t been  _ free _ for ten years and that can’t simply be all there is to it. Napoleon can’t have just lost ten years of life to a cause he doesn’t believe in and people who don’t care about him.

 

Sick of his own thoughts, and the way his mood has shifted from victorious to maudlin, Napoleon reaches into his pocket to find a quarter to flip into the Hudson, and turns away. He hails a cab once he reaches the road and tells the driver to drive to the Upper East Side and stop at the first bar he sees. He tells himself it’s a night for celebrating, and he elects to do that only among New York’s finest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you enjoyed it- just a bit more setting up and plot teasing before we launch into this next mission lads  
> thank u as always to everyone who's stuck with this, i honestly couldn't do it without you all, and welcome to new readers!! it so heartening to see new folks, esp in this fandom


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so so so sorry for the delay, but i have irl Matters to be dealing with and they took over. extra long chapter again to make up for it i hope!

Napoleon’s U.N.C.L.E apartment, Manhattan, New York

12th June, 1963

 

There’s a lot of things Napoleon doesn’t appreciate about the apartment U.N.C.L.E provided for him. He doesn’t like the decor, he doesn’t like the way everything about it feels slightly cheap, and he doesn’t like that he has a glimpse of Central Park if he angles his head a certain way from the balcony, but that there’s no sight of the Hudson. It’s liveable only because it’s not terribly far from the Garment District or Midtown, and he can get a cab north easily enough. Most importantly, it means that if he wants to meet Gaby and Illya in private, he can do so without having to give away his own secrets.

 

He’s arranged to meet them that morning, to go over their in-progress plan for the mission. It’s the only reason he’s up at such a time. Napoleon isn’t hungover; he couldn’t quite bring himself to drink that much, but another few hours lazing in bed wouldn’t have gone amiss. 

 

There’s a knock at the door and, as he ambles over to answer, brushing a hand over his sculpted hair, Napoleon makes a bet with himself as to whether the dynamic duo will arrive together. He guesses they will, having noticed the progress they’re making towards an easy kind of camaraderie, and grins when he opens the door and is proven right.

 

“Team,” he says, greeting them and waving them inside.

 

Gaby answers with a fleeting smile and Illya ducks through the doorway with a nod in his direction.

 

“Anyone for coffee?” Napoleon asks as he closes the door after them. “Or tea?” He adds, glancing at Illya.

 

Predictably, Illya shakes his head, and Gaby waves the offer away.

 

“Maybe later.” 

 

Gaby claims the sofa, sits with her legs firmly apart, elbows on her knees and hands clasped together as she eyes Napoleon. She’s wearing shorts emblazoned with a bright geometric pattern and a short-sleeved polo shirt. Evidently far more comfortable than she was in the dresses Napoleon and Illya picked for her in Rome, Napoleon is reminded distinctly of the way he found her in Berlin.  _ This suits her _ , he thinks, leaning against the arm of one of the chairs, Illya having folded himself into another, and they’re all gathered around the coffee table.

 

“So,” Gaby says, taking the lead, and Napoleon briefly muses on when that became the norm. “How did your meeting with Sanders go?”

 

“About as well as expected,” Napoleon admits, shaking his head slightly. “Shockingly, the CIA refuses to share its intelligence.”

 

“Then we work with what we have,” Illya says, looking almost relieved, and Napoleon wonders whether he’d rather go into an operation blind if it meant not accepting American help. “We should start surveillance on the locations and people listed in the file.”

 

“And then what?” Napoleon asks.

 

As far as their planning had gone, they’d decided that one or two of them would inevitably need to go undercover, whilst the remainder provided back-up if necessary. They’d also acknowledged that this really would be a long-term thing, with them looking at possible months of work before progress could be made. Napoleon knows all that, but he wants specifics; something to work towards. 

 

“Are we going to infiltrate them?” Napoleon continues, looking between Gaby and Illya. “Or do we want to pose as someone with a business offer? What’s our play here, because if we’re doing something as vague as  _ intelligence gathering _ we’re going to be stuck on this job for years.”

 

Gaby and Illya share a look, and Napoleon realises that if they arrived together, they must have met beforehand, and if they’ve done that, they’ve had time to talk. It’s enough to set him on edge. The knowledge that they could work around him if they wanted to, it’s something he’s let slip from his mind.

 

“We were thinking that Illya and I would take on undercover roles for this mission,” Gaby says, looking neither nervous nor apologetic, setting her jaw as she meets Napoleon’s eyes.

 

“Right,” Napoleon says slowly, eyebrows drawing together into a frown. “Why is that, exactly?”

 

“You are internationally-renowned criminal,” Illya points out, scowling with distaste. “You are ex-member of Irish mob. You worked for CIA.”

 

“And Gaby’s the daughter of a Nazi scientist, and an ex-MI5 agent. You’re working for the KGB and, let’s be honest, your self-control leaves something to be desired. What’s your point, Red?” Napoleon asks, not snapping, but sharp enough.

 

Gaby’s mouth is set in a hard line. “Given that you’ve explained the connections between the Mafia and the CIA, it seemed like it might be too risky to send you in undercover. If you were recognised as yourself, they might look into you and learn everything.”

 

Napoleon rolls his eyes. “Do you honestly think those aren’t the stakes I gamble with every time I go undercover? Anyway, who are you two going undercover as? The disenfranchised Bolshevik and his fascism-inclined wife?” He watches Illya’s hands clench into fists, and feels a petty, brief satisfaction at provoking a reaction with so few words.

 

“This time, it’s not worth the risk,” Gaby says, her voice cold and brooking no argument. “We’re getting this mission done, and we’re stopping Wasp. We don’t know what the Mafia’s capable of, and now isn’t the time to test that.”

 

“Oh, for the love of God-” Napoleon rises to his feet and starts pacing in the limited space. “This-” He pauses, making eye contact with both of them in turn. “Is a terrible idea. You’re benching me-  _ me. _ And you’re going in with Peril?” He glares at the floor, shaking his head. “Don’t you remember who the Italians sided against in the war?”

 

“They sided against Americans as well,” Illya snaps, drawing Napoleon’s gaze to him.

 

“That’s true, that is true,” Napoleon says, adopting a guise of diplomacy only for a moment. “But, at least  _ I speak Italian _ ,” he says, enunciating each word with care, so that Illya snorts and grips his hands together tightly.

 

“Would you both  _ stop? _ ” Gaby stands up in a burst of movement, and their attention returns to her. “It is ridiculous that you still expect me to play mother! You are supposed to work together, it’s very simple. Solo, stop being a brat and, Illya, stop rising to his bait.”

 

Illya has the good grace to look somewhat ashamed of himself. Napoleon doesn’t.

 

“Fine,” he says instead, with no small amount of venom. “Then let’s allocate marks.”

 

They do, and conversation takes a turn for the relatively peaceful. Marks are decided, as are meeting places and check-in times and a million other details that make Napoleon long for something a bit more life or death, or at least with more immediate personal gratification.

 

Illya stands as soon as they’re all agreed, and inclines his head to Gaby.

 

She shakes her head. “Solo and I arranged to go shopping, he’s going to show me around the Garment District.”

 

Napoleon turns his smirk on Illya. “I did, but I can show you as well, Peril.”

 

Apparently remembering their argument in the store in Rome, Illya shakes his head. “No. Thank you. I will- I will see you later.”

 

When the sound of the door closing after him reaches his ears, Napoleon turns to Gaby and arches an inquiring eyebrow. “Not that I’m not terribly flattered by you poaching my time, but I don’t recall arranging anything with you, let alone in the Garment District.”

 

Gaby stares at him for a long moment before rolling her eyes. “It’s about what you went to the CIA for-”   
  
Napoleon holds up a hand, interrupting her. “How about we discuss this over coffee? I’m useless until I’ve had my second cup.”

 

She frowns, but Napoleon doesn’t give her a chance to argue, instead ushering her out the door and not saying anything of substance until they’re well outside the building altogether.

 

“The whole place is probably bugged by U.N.C.L.E,” he explains as they wander down the street. “Best to talk about the really illegal stuff when they can’t be held accountable… Or feel obliged to stop us.”

 

“Of course,” Gaby says, nodding, committing the information to memory. “I wanted to ask, how much do you think we’ll need whatever information the CIA has on the Mafia?”

 

Napoleon considers for a moment, watches the sun glint off car windscreens. “If you want the truth, I think we’ll be set back by months, but even that’s a guess. I don’t even know what it is that we don’t know.”

 

“You and I are different to Illya,” Gaby says by way of a reply, and Napoleon feels a brief lurching sensation in his stomach as he realises Gaby is already learning how to talk like a spymaster. “We are more willing to do what needs to be done, he needs more pushing.” She silences Napoleon’s retort with a look, and continues. “Together, I think we can get the information we need from the CIA.”

 

“Sanders said they keep that sort of information elsewhere,” Napoleon says, watching her carefully. She doesn’t look discouraged. “We’d have to find a CIA blacksite, then we’d have to break in and burgle it, and do it all without getting caught.”

 

Gaby looks at him sharply, narrowing her eyes. “You don’t want to do it?”

 

“On the contrary,” Napoleon flashes her his brightest, most charming grin. “I’d be delighted.”

* * *

 

Summer edges into autumn, Illya’s turtlenecks return with a vengeance, and the leaves fade from polished emeralds to burnished copper. Months drag by, and, inch by crawling inch, they make progress. 

 

Gaby and Illya both construct covers for themselves, and Napoleon acts as their begrudging yet witty consultant. He teases Illya ruthlessly in his quest for a passable American accent, and tells him in no uncertain terms that his cover should be from Kansas, with that head of wheat-coloured hair. Gaby’s cover comes much more quickly, presumably her time with Waverly gives her a headstart on a believable, plummy English accent.

 

All of them spend a horrendous amount of time observing, learning the difference between members of the Mafia and common criminals, and Napoleon tries to wrangle his mounting frustration that peaks with the knowledge that he’ll never get the chance to utilise all the intelligence gathering they’re doing. Time having soothed his ego, he can admit to himself that perhaps Gaby and Illya had a point about the dangers of the Mafia knowing his connection with the CIA, but there’s an argumentative part of him that wants to announce that if Wasp didn’t know, the Mafia probably doesn’t either.

 

For the sake of teamwork and finishing this mission as soon as possible, Napoleon keeps that part restrained and silent. He’s very proud of himself.

 

Of course, it helps that he knows he’s getting one over on Illya at least with his and Gaby’s investigation into the CIA. They cover each other’s observation shifts to allow the other to search for blacksites, and Napoleon revives some acquaintanceships to start research in earnest. 

 

That’s how he finds himself waiting, with a degree of impatience, on a bench in Lincoln Park barely after dawn. Even the air looks grey, and Napoleon keeps his hands stuffed in the pockets of his Guards Coat in an attempt to fend off the cool mistiness. 

 

He’s been waiting nearly half an hour when his contact finally arrives, Polo Coat flapping about his legs even as he tries not to look harried. Robert seems to have barely aged since they last met, his fawny skin still smooth and his black hair insistently falling towards his eyes, like he’s still a student at whichever Ivy League school he went to.

 

Napoleon arches an eyebrow at him, and waits for him to take a seat. “Good morning.”

 

Robert glances around, as though he doesn’t know Napoleon has already checked if they are being watched. “Hello, Solo. Please, call me Sato.”

 

“Surnames only basis now, is it?” Napoleon asks, and huffs a brief laugh at the look Robert shoots him. “I’ll humour you. You’re starting to sound like him, though.”

 

“God, I hope not,” Robert replies, and they both smile at the joke, however gentle the humour. “Well then, what can I help you with?”

 

“I need a favour,” Napoleon says, settling his arm along the back of the bench. “For old times sake.”

 

Robert purses his lips together and stares out at the park, avoiding Napoleon’s gaze. “Yes, I gathered that much. What, specifically, is it?”

 

“I’d really like to know where the CIA stores their files. You know, the ones on dangerous people and organisations.”

 

That is enough to secure Robert’s attention, and he turns to face Napoleon, eyes wide. “You’re joking, aren’t you? This is the precursor to the real favour.”

 

Napoleon smiles and waits, and Robert shakes his head and releases an explosive sigh. 

 

“Other people ask people to dinner before they ask favours, you know,” he says, toying with one of the buttons on his coat.

 

“I can do that,” Napoleon protests, then considers. “Or, I can buy you breakfast.”

 

“You’re not other people,” Robert tells him, his smile shifting into something small and slightly melancholy. “All I want is a favour in return.”

 

Immediately, Napoleon is wary. He doesn’t like to be indebted to people as a rule, but he dislikes performing favours for CIA agents even more. “Alright,” he says, doing his best impression of accomodating. “What is it?”

 

“When you enter the blacksite, as I can only assume you will, find my file and bring it back to me. Here. I’ll send the information to your apartment.”

 

It’s lucky that Napoleon’s so well-practised at maintaining an expression of vague amusement as his neutral look, because it feels as though his ears literally prick up at Robert’s request. “Not a problem,” he says, and then, unable to clamp down on his curiosity: “Why, exactly?”

 

Robert spreads his hands like a professor posing a question in a lecture. “Someday I might want to disappear in an impermanent kind of way.” 

 

_ Maybe that’s just how we all feel, _ Napoleon thinks as he shakes Robert’s hand, the touch lingering a moment longer than necessary.

 

“By the way,” he adds, tilting his head at Robert and raising his eyebrows to form an accusatory expression. “Fuck you for making me come to New Jersey.”

 

Robert laughs quietly. “With your next partner, keep your weaknesses to yourself.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there we go, we have bickering, we have subplots, we have new characters, its all going on lads  
> hope you enjoyed it! thank you again so much to everyone who comments and leaves kudos, honestly, i cant emphasise enough how much i appreciate it


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bit of a longer chapter this week so that i could fit everything in, and a deviation from the plot, but i hope yall enjoy!

Manhattan, New York

10th September, 1963

 

“We’re not really getting anywhere, are we?” Napoleon says, scanning passersby as they amble or hurry down the street, inevitably knock into each other and either start an argument or apologise to the air ahead of them.

 

Illya grimaces and sticks his hands deeper in his the pockets of his trench coat. “Not fast,” he acknowledges.

 

They’re sat outside a cafe on the west side, because Napoleon is secretly a hopelessly nostalgic fellow and he loves the view of the Hudson. He loves its reliability as the city changes around it, and the steady pull of the current. The seating is empty save for them, with all the other customers huddled inside, but they are not spies, nor are they accompanied by a Russian who is impervious to the encroaching chill.

 

Napoleon raises his eyebrows at the carefully diplomatic answer. “You want to drag this job into the new year?” He asks, and takes a sip of coffee only to recoil from the taste. At some point in their conversation, it had gone cold.

 

He catches a glimpse of amusement in the turn of Illya’s mouth, presumably at Napoleon’s own expression of distaste.

 

“I do not  _ want to _ ,” Illya says, lifting his shoulders in an approximation of a shrug. “We simply have to keep at it until it is done.”

 

The thing is, Napoleon knows that Illya is still in contact with the KGB, far more so than Napoleon is with the CIA; he hasn’t heard from them in an official capacity since his meeting with Sanders. He has contacts who’ve told him that Illya has visited residences of KGB officials known to the Americans, but permitted to remain there in the shadowy way that governments allow these things. It burns Napoleon, but not in any patriotic capacity, but he still wants to find out what Illya does in those meetings. 

 

Napoleon spends most of his time being fairly certain of the game he’s playing, particularly in the last few months, but it nags at him that he can’t be sure of the same for other people. He thinks that Gaby is loyal to Waverly more than the team or U.N.C.L.E, and to herself above him. He thinks that Waverly might be a rather sly character, but that his pursuit of international stability is more sincere than Sanders’ ever was. He thinks that if they don’t make any discernible progress with this mission soon, his KGB handlers will snatch Illya back to the other side of the Iron Curtain. 

 

There are, when it comes to other people, far too many possibilities, and that’s why Napoleon is a professional narcissist. 

 

“You’re not wrong,” he admits, nodding slightly. “Dreadfully boring, but not wrong.”

 

Illya snorts and rolls his eyes, turning his bright gaze on Napoleon. “You don’t sound sincere, Cowboy.”

 

“What a rarity that must be,” Napoleon says with a fleeting grin. “We must alert the press.”

 

“Is there something you want to tell me?” Illya asks him, pinning him with his gaze as his eyebrows draw together. 

 

It’s as though he didn’t listen to what Napoleon said at all, which Napoleon can never decide is more of an annoyance or a challenge. He sets that now familiar conundrum aside to deal with the one facing him right now. Robert had been as good as his word and sent Napoleon the location of one CIA blacksite that might store the files they’re searching for, but there were a number of issues. The most blindingly obvious is that the blacksite is located beneath the New York Public Library, beneath their basement and miles of stacks and not-too-shabby security teams. Beyond that, he has no way of knowing what they might be dealing with, but something tells him that the CIA might be rather good at the internal security business.

 

He had discussed it with Gaby, and she had still wanted to leave Illya out of their plan, sure as she was that Illya would force them not to do it. Napoleon was growing to be of a different mind. It’s not that he doesn’t want to work alone, but he’s already having to work with Gaby on this, and he can’t stop thinking about how invaluable Illya ended up being in the Vinciguerras’ factory. 

 

“Yes, actually,” he says, leaning back in his seat. He decides to make eye contact with Illya for this confession, mostly because he hopes it’ll prevent this particular coffee table being flipped over. “I’ve been working on a little something to do with the case.”

 

Illya’s eyebrows creep up his forehead, as though he’s suspicious, but not surprised.

 

“I continued to look into the information the CIA has on the Mafia,” Napoleon says, sculpting his face into what he hopes resembles something apologetic. “And, I discovered the location of a blacksite where they might well store what we need to know. Only trouble is-”

 

“Trouble is, you would have a German and a Russian steal from the CIA like it is no big deal,” Illya says, but to Napoleon’s enduring shock, he doesn’t sound angry. In fact, he sounds almost… amused? Or perhaps simply unsurprised.

 

“Well, I wouldn’t  _ have _ you do anything, Peril,” Napoleon says, gaining enough confidence to sound infuriatingly reasonable. “But, I do think it’s a rather good idea.”

 

Illya exhales sharply through his nose, and, if Napoleon didn’t know better, he’d think he was smothering a laugh. “And this is only your idea?”

 

Napoleon stays quiet, because somewhere in the last few months of meetings like this between the three of them and working in silent hours, the idea of lying to either of his teammates became uncomfortable. Well, the idea of lying to Illya about  _ this _ certainly did.

 

“I didn’t think Gaby would give it up,” Illya says, nodding slightly in response to Napoleon’s silence. “I’m not surprised she recruited you.”

 

“You know me,” Napoleon says, and grins again, his mouth curving sharply. “Show me a pretty woman and something that’s not mine and I’m gone.”

 

The beat before Illya’s reply is a moment too long. His face remains still for a split second more than it normally might, before it settles into amusement. “Of course, Cowboy.”

 

“You’re not angry, then?” Napoleon inquires, hearing the lilt of surprise in his own voice before he can smooth it out. “No feelings of betrayal?”

 

“No,” Illya says, and finally removes his gaze from Napoleon to stare across the Hudson. “I thought you two might be up to something. You are not so good at forging her handwriting as you think.” He glances across in time to see Napoleon’s frown and a genuine smile slips onto his face. “From the reports you filled out when covering for her.”

 

“Ah.” Napoleon chuckles and shakes his head. “It was the  _ g _ s, wasn’t it? The tail wasn’t consistent.”

 

Illya taps his nose. “That is for me to know.”

 

Napoleon feels a heady mixture of amusement and warmth tighten his chest as he smiles at Illya, laughing softly at the joke, and then forcibly turns his head away. “It’s Gaby’s birthday on the thirteenth,” he says. Perhaps if he changes the subject he’ll rid himself of the feeling.

 

For a moment, Illya doesn’t reply, and when Napoleon flicks his eyes back to him he finds him pursing his lips and looking mildly troubled.

 

“Don’t pretend you didn’t read her file, too,” he says, and watches Illya pause and then nod. “Are you getting her anything?”

 

“I- Don’t know,” Illya says, hesitance painfully clear in his voice.

 

“What’s going on with you two, anyway?” Napoleon asks, unable to stop himself as he pulls his seat around to face Illya directly. “Is it a ‘what happens in Rome stays in Rome’ deal, or-”

 

“Nothing happened in Rome,” Illya says forcefully, keeping his eyes fixed on a distant point. 

 

“ _ Nothing? _ ” Napoleon stares at him in disbelief. “Peril, I had sex three times with two different women in Rome, and-”

 

“Well, congratulations-” Illya spits, sarcasm heavy and biting, even as a blush colours his cheekbones.

 

A laugh escapes him, and Napoleon runs a hand through his hair. “I’m not looking for you to stroke my ego, Peril. I’m pointing out the fact that you were sharing a room, and you had that… amorous entanglement.”   
  
Illya shoots him a look that can only be described as scandalised, and Napoleon laughs harder. 

 

“Come on, Peril, you know I had to sit through every one of those longing looks and shy glances. You holding her hand at every given opportunity, and her looking like she wanted to tear you clothes off any minute.”

 

“I did  _ not _ -”

 

“Don’t be a prude, you were practically mooning over her,” Napoleon says, covering his mouth with his hand as the laughter eases. “So, really, what happened?”

 

“It was nothing,” Illya says stiffly, frowning hard. “A flirtation, if that.”

 

Napoleon sighs in sympathy, but he doesn’t make that clear to Illya. Instead, he stands and leaves a few dollars to cover the bill, then circles the table to squeeze Illya’s shoulder. “Never mind, Peril. She’s a good friend to have, when you look past the capacity for lying, and there’s plenty more fish in the sea.” He pats him on the shoulder once, then starts buttoning up his coat. “Now, come along, we’ve got an empty bar to observe and I’ve got an idea to pitch about Gaby’s present.”

 

The blush on Illya’s cheeks takes longer to fade than Napoleon would have thought, but he’s surprised to find he enjoys his conversation with Illya far more than usual. There’s a tingling sensation that rushes through him sometimes, when Illya makes a particularly dry remark or fails to hide a smile, and by the time they reach the bar they’re scoping out, Illya’s face is only slightly pink from the walk, and Napoleon’s energy has mellowed.

* * *

 

Gaby’s U.N.C.L.E apartment, Manhattan, New York

13th September, 1963

 

It’s her birthday, but Gaby isn’t expecting much. Maybe a card from Illya, perhaps some stolen trinket from Napoleon, and potentially a verse of “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow” from Waverly when she next sees him. But first, before any celebrations, she has a day of work ahead of her. Napoleon had passed on the information from his meeting with his CIA contact, which had been quite a conversation.

 

_ (“Excuse me? This blacksite is where?” _

 

_ “You heard me, Gaby. It’s still perfectly doable.” _

 

_ “It’s practically an American landmark, Solo, and you want to break into it?” _

 

_ “Actually, you were the one who wanted to break into it. I’m being led astray.”) _

 

So, she spends the first part of her day at the New York Public Library, which she can only imagine would be deathly boring were she not doing reconnaissance. Instead, she observes the security team, makes notes of their numbers and schedules under the pretence of reading some dry historical text, and scouts around to figure out the best way to the basement. Ideally, she would be able to find an entrance from outside, but since Solo’s the expert she leaves that to him.

 

By the time she leaves, there’s barely an hour until she’s supposed to be meeting Illya for dinner at a restaurant where some alleged Mafia members have previously been spotted. It is, then, to Gaby’s great surprise that she finds Illya and Solo waiting for her in the lobby of her building when she enters.

 

“Has something happened?” She asks, under her breath, as she approaches them.

 

Solo smirks, but Illya speaks before he can make whatever remark sprang to his mind. “No, we have surprise for you.”

 

Gaby eyes them with suspicion. After all, the three of them haven’t known each other very long, in spite of the amount of life-threatening situations they’ve been in together. She can’t think what the surprise might be. “Would you like to come up?” She asks, not wanting to advertise her confusion. 

 

“We have somewhere to be,” Solo says, shaking his head as he refuses, and pulls something out of an inner pocket. “This is for you. Happy birthday.”

 

“Yes, happy birthday,” Illya echoes, smiling at her.

 

Gaby frowns at them, wrong-footed by the lack of jokes and bickering, but she takes the envelope from Solo and opens it. Inside is a ticket for a performance of ‘The Firebird’ by the New York City Ballet. She feels tears prick at her eyes, but it’s quickly overwhelmed by a rush of excitement as she looks between them. “You got this for me?”

 

Napoleon quirks an eyebrow. “It’d be a strange kind of joke if it wasn’t.”

 

“Solo remembered you are a dancer, from your file,” Illya explains, ignoring Napoleon. “I looked at what performances were on, nothing Russian, which is shame, but-”

 

“But I wrangled you a ticket with my extensive contacts and charm,” Napoleon finishes, smirking again and appearing incredibly smug.

 

“Thank you,” Gaby says, surprising herself with how genuine she sounds. “Both of you. But, you aren’t coming?”

 

Illya smiles, gentle when she looks at him and a shade more reserved when Napoleon follows her gaze to his face. “Neither of us would appreciate it.”

 

“And we thought you might like a night work free, without us arguing to distract you,” Napoleon adds, sharing a grin with her, even as she’s again surprised by the thoughtfulness.

 

Acting on impulse, she draws them both in for a hug, first Illya and then Napoleon.

 

“However,” Napoleon says, still grinning as he smooths his hair back into place. “Peril and I have a half hour until we need to be at the restaurant. Why don’t we come and critique your outfit?”

 

Gaby laughs, catches Illya by the arm and pulls him towards the elevator when he looks hesitant. “I’d like that.”

 

In the elevator, Napoleon pulls a bottle of champagne from somewhere, she can’t think where, and they open it when they enter her apartment. She doesn’t have champagne glasses, so Napoleon gives her a wine glass with a flourish, hands Illya a mug with “New York” and the Statue of Liberty emblazoned across it, and finds a plain glass for himself. Gaby laughs at Illya’s expression, then asks him not to kill Napoleon on her birthday as a favour to her, and heads into her room to dress. She can hear Napoleon and Illya talking from her room, and smiles to herself when the conversation between them doesn’t cease for the entire time she’s absent.

 

When she emerges, touching a hand to her hair, Napoleon grins.

 

“Miss Teller, you do clean up nicely,” he says, and steals her glass to refill with champagne.

 

She tugs at the dress, a choice she’d made for herself; slim and black and satin, with red heels and her hair in the bouffant ponytail she’d learnt in Rome.

 

“You look lovely,” Illya says, softer.

 

When she looks at him, takes in his smile, Gaby realises she feels none of the attraction- or had it just been nerves? that made her try to kiss him in Rome. Her heartbeat doesn’t start galloping and her mouth doesn’t grow dry- she doesn’t feel the urge to claim his attention. Instead, she smiles back at him, smoothes out her dress and accepts her glass from Napoleon.

 

“Thank you,” she says again, taking a sip.

 

“You should know,” Napoleon says, topping off his and Illya’s drinks. “This comes with a condition.”

 

“What?” Gaby asks, studying his expression. “You want me to find a ballerina to sleep with you?”

 

Napoleon grins, the lines around his eyes crinkling, but he shakes his head. “No, I can manage that on my own, thank you. Illya might be able to explain best.”

 

Illya looks distinctly uncomfortable, as though he disagrees, but he takes a breath. “Cowboy told me about your plan.” He doesn’t add more, also privy to the surveillance in U.N.C.L.E apartments, but he doesn’t need to.

 

Gaby feels a fresh wave of guilt, and her stomach threatens to turn, but Illya keeps talking.

 

“I will help you with it, because we are tackling this as team. Is professional. But, please, do not do this again,” he says, leaving so much unsaid, but he doesn’t need to say more.

 

She and Napoleon share an uncanny similarity of thinking, something about the way they’re wired means that whatever it is that makes him and Illya clash mean she and him often work in tandem. On the other hand, she and Illya understand each other far better. She reads his silences and the words he cannot say, he hears the words she shows in her movements.

 

“I won’t,” she says, and it feels like an oath as they all raise their glasses. “How could I?” Gaby continues, when they’ve all sipped their champagne. “After this gift.”

 

Napoleon nods, adopting an expression of faux solemnity. “I did say bribery would be the most effective way.”

 

The conversation continues until the cab the two of them called for Gaby arrives. It is light, untouched by work and espionage and world government, and Gaby feels like she can breathe again for those minutes. She does not enjoy lying to Illya; hated it in Italy, and hated it just the same in New York, but it had been necessary and she doesn’t regret it. All the same, being open with him, with the only member of the team who she’s sure has never lied to her, is a release she hadn’t realised she was seeking.

 

It’s that minor epiphany alone that means that as she’s driven to the ballet, Gaby allows herself to daydream about the performance she’s about to see, and not stew in bitterness at Napoleon for telling Illya the truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> because i checked the dossiers and it is indeed gaby's birthday, so i couldnt NOT include it, could i?? hope u enjoyed, and big thanks again to everyone who's reading, leaving kudos and commenting!


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> isnt it true that people say all the greatest works of literature had five month gaps between each chapter? ;)
> 
> really and genuinely very sorry for leaving such a massive gap, i can promise it wasn't because i felt i was lacking in kind comments! in all honesty, i wrote myself into a bit of a corner and got so worried there was no way forward i didn't want to think about this story anymore. however! as is probably obvious, just the other day i realised how to continue on with the plot and now i really can't wait to share it with whoever's left reading this. 
> 
> enjoy!

Napoleon’s heart sings as he slips through shadow and skirts the sweep of a security guard’s torch. He has to move carefully; placing his steps softly so that his heels don’t click against the polished stone. For some people, being in a public space after hours is eerie; the sudden lack of people makes it seem empty and deathly. On the other hand, Napoleon’s always found himself perfectly comfortable. The sheer number of opportunities that wouldn’t otherwise be available verges on overwhelming and the fact that he has such a cultural hotspot all to himself revives a more arrogant, greedy part of him.

 

_ This is mine,  _ he fancies as he reaches the door to the stairwell he needs.  _ Everything within these walls is mine, _ he thinks as he sets to with his lock picks.  _ Who’s going to stop me doing whatever I want? _

 

The door swings open, a show of his renewed hubris when he doesn’t reach to stop and silence it. Instead, he opts to leave it open, either a sign for the others or a puzzle for security- whichever sees it first.

 

The narrow beam of his torch bounces off the walls and stairs and Napoleon jogs down, down, down, past doors and corridors leading to manuscripts and dusty tomes, he’s sure, some of them worth fortunes. But, the door he’s after is unmarked and unimpressive, not to the extent that it becomes mysterious, but enough that no one could theorise on its importance.

  
As he stands in front of it, giving it a brief once over, Napoleon ponders on the CIA and their newfound fondness of CCTV. If he were a more thuggish kind of thief, he might have a balaclava or bandana to pull over his face. If he were in Victoria Vinciguerra’s fantasy, he’d have a mask to slip on at this very moment. Neither of those is the case, so he kneels down by the lock and gets to work once again. 

 

There are two locks, one by the handle and one at the ground. Napoleon makes short time in unlocking them both and pushes the door open, more cautiously this time, to find himself in a dark, claustrophobic corridor. At first, he thinks there are walls rising high either side of him, but as he swipes his torch from side to side he realises they’re shelves and shelves of files and cardboard boxes. 

 

For a moment, brief though it is, Napoleon thinks he’s overestimated his own abilities. There is no way for him to find what he needs in this room in one night.

 

Thankfully, the CIA seem to know this, too. On the wall just inside of the door is a map of the room, with a key to explain each area. Most of it, he skims.

 

But heading the map is something that gives him pause:  _ 1955-65.  _ Vague though it is, Napoleon makes an educated guess that the room only contains files relating to CIA matters between those years.  _ They really do plan ahead. _

 

Still, this is the best they’ve got and Napoleon forges on.

 

There are sections for operations, groups, individuals, and more than Napoleon has the time for. He’s moving before he has a plan. His and Robert’s files are the priority. He doesn’t even know if he’ll take his own file yet. If he’s quick, he can have them before the others start wondering what’s taking him so long, then he can search for intelligence on the Mafia.

 

_ Could do with a string to tie to the door _ , he thinks as he winds his way through the labyrinth. In some places, the files thin and some shelves are completely empty. Napoleon can’t help thinking about the next two years that will be stored in this room and what was supposed to go in his file, what would go in his new file if the CIA were to discover it missing. He wouldn’t even be a tenuous asset then, most likely he’d be burned and marked a traitor, with only U.N.C.L.E to shield him. It’s not an appealing thought.

 

At least the CIA are bureaucrats at heart, because their labelling is both immaculate and alphabetical. It helps even more that Sato and Solo should be close together, although he’s only guessing that they’re both considered assets. Unsurprisingly, he finds Robert’s file first and tucks it into the back of his waistband with a mind to read it later.

 

Napoleon’s file is thicker, which he notes with a strange remnant of pride. Time is pressing down on him, and the urge to work faster is compelling, but Napoleon pauses and flicks through. There are mission briefings printed in neat, occasionally smudged, typeface. There are reports in writing he recognises as Sanders’, and his own, and some he can’t place that niggles at the back of his mind. 

 

He isn’t sure what he’s expecting when he opens the folder, mostly intelligence referring to missions, but papers that look like medical documents certainly aren’t it. Napoleon flicks through the pages and finds two names consistently sign them. 

 

Sidney Gottlieb.

 

D. Ewen Cameron.

 

The darkness must be straining his eyes because a slight ache starts to grow between his temples. Napoleon slips the file with Robert’s in the back of his waistband, realising he’s lost track of time, and heads to the next section. He isn’t sure how long he walks for, but he comes to the realisation he’s been walking in circles, or at least without direction, when he passes the same shelf for a third time.

 

_ I’m lost. _ Napoleon frowns and drops his face to his palm. His headache is getting worse, a constant throb he can’t ignore.  _ I don’t remember the last time I was lost. _

 

Napoleon takes a breath and tries to steel himself. Standing up straight, gathering his bearings, his head spins suddenly. In the pitch black of the room, it’s especially disorientating and for a shaky moment he thinks the room is moving around him. He stumbles, throws out a hand and knocks his knuckles on the metal bar of a shelf before he steadies himself on it.

 

His headache turns piercing, almost like his head’s being crushed by some invisible pressure, and he almost drops to his knees. 

 

Almost.

 

Before he can collapse completely, the sound of muted footsteps reaches Napoleon’s ears and he knows, in a sickening, cold rush, that the security guards have followed his trail of foolhardy clues and are here to arrest him, perhaps even take him for interrogation if they work for the CIA.

 

_U.N.C.L.E_ _can’t protect me,_ he thinks as he hurries blindly for some hidden corner, realising only belatedly that he’s dropped his torch. _It’s me, it’s only me, I can’t rely on them._

 

But just as he thinks that, his body decides to prove him wrong. His toe catches on something, and his headache is deafening and it’s all he can do to throw out his hands in front of him as he pitches suddenly forwards.

 

Napoleon feels so impossibly young as he lies on the floor, winded, unseeing, and in more pain than he can ever recall feeling. All at once, he doesn’t want to do this anymore. He doesn’t want to keep hiding and running because a man behind a desk tells him to. He doesn’t want to risk anything for all the countries that either don’t care about him or want him dead. He doesn’t want any of it and never did.

 

The thrumming pain in his head blocks out everything else, so when he feels something touch his foot Napoleon immediately scrabbles backwards, only to be blinded by a white light. Instinctively, he raises a hand, eyes squinting and watering as he’s dazzled. Eventually, he makes out not a security guard or a CIA agent. It’s Illya. He’s mouthing something at him, but Napoleon can’t make it out or understand why.

 

Illya shoots him the look of frowning frustration he saves for when Napoleon’s being particularly deliberately obtuse.

 

“What are you doing?” Napoleon tries to whisper, but can barely hear himself, and the effort spikes lancing pain from his face to the back of his head and he clutches his forehead.

 

Moments later, he feels a hand at his elbow, then at his shoulder, shaking him gently. The light fades and Napoleon opens his eyes to see Illya’s covered the torch with his jacket. As his heart rate slows, the headache begins to fade and Napoleon’s so relieved he could cry.

 

Faintly, he registers Illya speaking to him.

 

“- You hurt? Cowboy, if you are pretending to be injured-”

 

Napoleon laughs weakly, pushing himself more upright on a shaky arm. “That would be overdramatic, Peril, even for me.” He’s so busy maintaining a sitting position, he doesn’t see Illya’s expression, but he assumes it’s one suitably impressed by such a witty remark.

 

“What happened?”

 

There’s something a little odd in Illya’s voice, probably hitherto unheard of levels of annoyance.

 

“I don’t rightly know,” Napoleon admits, and stares off into the darkness rather than face Illya in a moment of uncertainty. “I had a terrible headache. Can’t explain it.”

 

“Again,” Illya notes.

 

Napoleon chances a glance at him. He doesn’t look angry, more carefully blank with perhaps a hint of thoughtfulness. 

 

“This is not first time,” Illya continues, meeting Napoleon’s gaze, which shouldn’t make Napoleon’s breath quicken like it does. “Maybe you are ill. You should see doctor.”

 

His lips twitching, Napoleon smirks. “Concerned, Peril?”

 

“Yes,” Illya says flatly, and stands up.

 

It’s embarrassing, but Illya’s hand had been so steady against his shoulder than Napoleon had forgotten it was there. With it gone, Napoleon finds himself unbalanced and sways to the side. He thinks he covers it tolerably well, using the movement to rise to his feet and face Illya, whose expression is truly unreadable.

 

Until, that is, Napoleon’s balance abandons him again and the floor disappears from under his feet. It’s been a rather bizarre few minutes, but strangest of all is that as Napoleon stumbles forward, Illya reaches out and catches him.

 

They end up with only Napoleon’s hand between them, braced against Illya’s chest, the other in a fist against his shoulder. Illya grips Napoleon by the biceps, his eyebrows impossibly high on his forehead, like he’s expecting Napoleon to do something dastardly and tricksy. As if he’s capable of such a thing when he can barely stay upright.

 

“My apologies,” Napoleon mutters, his attention split between standing on his own two feet and how solid Illya’s chest is beneath his hand. “I’m okay, really. Let me-”

 

Illya snorts. “Yes, you look okay,” he says, dripping sarcasm. His grip on Napoleon’s arms loosens only slightly. “I mean it, you need to see doctor.”

 

“Got one handy, Peril?” Napoleon asks, trying not to sound too breathless. 

 

There’s no answer to that.

 

“Come on,” Napoleon says as he tries to muster himself. “We’ve got a job to finish.”

 

Illya releases Napoleon slowly, clearly not believing he won’t keel over the moment he’s left to his own devices. However, Napoleon stays standing and shoots Illya a grin he hopes doesn’t look as tired as it feels.

 

“Third time’s the charm, Peril.”

 

There’s a beat before Illya rolls his eyes and gestures for him to follow, and the collection of moments unspoken and touches exchanged, however brief or minor, leaves Napoleon with a lot to think. He lets Illya helm the rest of the mission. Illya finds the file on the Mafia, Illya leads them back out of the blacksite, Illya escorts them out of the library unseen and safe. All Napoleon does is lock the doors behind them.

 

A few blocks away, at the well-lit end of an alley facing onto the road, Gaby is waiting for them in a car. She has a book open and leant against the steering wheel, but with only one hand holding it in place. Napoleon guesses the other is resting on a gun.

 

“You took your time,” she remarks as they get in the car- Illya in the passenger seat and Napoleon sprawling across the back seats.

 

Napoleon pats his jacket pockets as she starts the engine, but finds them full of various useful tools and implements. “Either of you have a smoke?” He asks, shifting as the files still in his waistband press into his back.

 

Illya pauses in his relay of the night’s events to shake his head at Napoleon. “Shockingly, no.”

 

“Here,” Gaby says, reaching into the glovebox one-handed and fishing out a carton of cigarettes and a lighter. “Light me one, would you?”

  
  
“Coming right up,” Napoleon says, holding two in his mouth and lighting them both before leaning forward to pass one to Gaby. “Want one, Peril?” He asks, looking at Illya sideways.

 

“No, thank you,” Illya says, facing stubbornly forwards. “I don’t smoke.”

 

Napoleon exhales a smoky breath in Illya’s direction. “Don’t drink, don’t smoke. What do you do, Peril?”

 

“We need to debrief,” Illya says instead of acknowledging that Napoleon spoke, apparently they’re back on that familiar roundabout.

 

“With who?” Napoleon says, brushing a hand over his forehead. 

 

“He has a point,” Gaby says, with an impressive amount of both reluctance and condescension. “I don’t think Waverly’s going to want to know about this. We did this for the mission, but no one needs to know about it in an official capacity.”

 

Napoleon’s smiles, a wry edge to it. “And this is Miss Teller’s area of expertise. I say we defer to her.”

 

“Thank you, Mr Solo,” Gaby replies, knocking the ash off her cigarette out of her open window.

 

For a moment, Napoleon watches her silhouette highlighted by streetlights as the wind tugs at and plays with her hair and her eyelashes cast a shadow down her cheek. Next to her, Illya seems to have conceded the point. His head is angled at his window and Napoleon sees the frost of his eyes glint fiercely where the light catches them and his lips are pursed together, which is what Napoleon focuses on for the rest of the car ride. 

 

He wonders if Illya will speak to Gaby about his incapacitating headache and feels a preemptive twist of annoyance and the breach of his privacy. 

 

Gaby drops him off at his U.N.C.L.E apartment block first. They agree to meet in the afternoon the next day, given that they’re entering the small hours of the morning, and Napoleon hides in the lobby of the building until he’s sure Gaby and Illya aren’t lingering around a corner. Then, he uses the reception phone to call out a cab.

 

“Gramercy,” he says to the cab driver. “East 19th Street, please.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there we go! bit of a teaser ending :^) if youre still here, please do go ahead and let me know what you thought, apologies if it's a bit rusty!
> 
> im going to try to pick up a weekly update system, now that im enthused again and have a plan i hope to stick to it!
> 
> thank you so much for reading!


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i did it! a timely update :o

There aren’t many places that have ever felt like home to Napoleon. Hell’s Kitchen he’d rather forget. East Berlin seems to chase him wherever he goes. Yurakucho was a refuge he sometimes longs for. Kensington was valuable. Navigli lent him some of its character. 

  
  
There are other cities, other countries, other neighbourhoods, but none feels like home like Gramercy. His association with the neighbourhood is longer than he’s been in the intelligence game, dating back to his first entree into upper class criminal society, a key connection with a listless socialite in London, and a game of backgammon that fell in his favour.

 

If it hadn’t been for that string of circumstances, he could never have afforded to buy a penthouse apartment there.

 

It is peaceful when the cab pulls up, and the familiarity of the doorman nodding to him as he passes alleviates the persistent sense of homesickness that Napoleon never seems to be quite able to shake. He steps into the elevator and breathes easily. It’s something of a novel experience.

 

The elevator opens into an atrium and Napoleon flicks the lightswitch to reveal marbled floor, the night’s tapestry of stars peeking through a skylight, and the living room looking over Manhattan beyond. He can glimpse inside the living room, comfortably crowded with leather armchairs and a thick, patterned rug. 

 

A shadow moves in the living room. “That you, boy?”

 

Napoleon summons a smile and kicks off his shoes. “It’s me.”

 

His footsteps are muffled by the carpet and the chair seems to wheeze as he drops into it. Opposite him, across a coffee table with that day’s newspaper open on it, sits a man with broad shoulders and a square jaw. He’s clean-shaven, wearing a pressed shirt and jeans, his hair combed loosely back.

 

“Hello, dad,” Napoleon says, keeping his smile easy. “Fix me a drink?” He asks, eyeing the tumbler on the table.

 

“What are you after?” Doran asks, pushing up from his seat.

 

Napoleon can’t fight off the smirk. “Got any scotch?”

  
  
“You know I don’t.” Doran barely bats an eyelid. “You’ll have Jameson’s or nothing.”

  
  
“Jameson’s it is,” Napoleon replies and pats at his pockets before he remembers his lack of cigarettes. “Got any Chesterfield’s?”

 

Doran shakes his head as he sets down a glass. “Only Old Golds. You’re welcome to one,” he says, reaching for a carton.

 

“Thanks, but I won’t.” Napoleon reaches for the whiskey instead.

 

“Those damn cigarettes are the only thing you’re loyal to, boy,” Doran says with a snort.

 

Napoleon arches an eyebrow. “You don’t call this apartment loyalty?”

 

“Caretaking, boy. I’m a glorified janitor,” Doran replies, just as sharp.

 

When he was younger, Napoleon would theorise he was illegitimate; that Doran wasn’t really his father. He had his mother’s inky dark hair, her tanned skin in summer, her fine features. All their neighbours would say he had her smile, too, but seeing as he never saw his father smile he couldn’t be sure. Unfortunately, as his mother would so often point out, the truth was in their eyes. She would say it was his father’s eyes that had first made her fall in love, so bright and blue.

 

Napoleon meets those eyes now. “That’s a big word for a janitor to know.” He slings back the last of his drink. “I’m going to bed.”

 

Doran leans to a side table and fiddles with the radio. “Guest room’s set up.”

 

“I know.” Napoleon doesn’t so much as look over his shoulder as he walks through the doorway. “I called ahead.”

  
  
With less than twelve hours until he meets Illya and Gaby, what Napoleon means to do is settle down with some classified CIA files and read.

 

And that really is exactly what he means to do. Only, the moment he opens his file and tries to focus, his throat tightens. Napoleon tries to swallow past it, but a choked noise escapes him and his first thought is that he’s been poisoned. His second, more rational thought, is that he’s about to cry.

 

His breath comes in shuddering gasps and he sets down his drink before he spills it, then presses his palm over his mouth. Despite blinking fast, tears start to roll down his cheeks and Napoleon hunches over, wrapping his other arm around his middle. It’s as though he finally feels all the pain and anxiety he’s been covering and trying to outrun. Finally, with so many answers right in front of him, everything starts to feel more real. 

  
Unbidden, words he skimmed from the documents flash through his mind.  _ Experiment. Control. Asset. Loyalty. Enhanced. Driving.  _

 

Napoleon feels nauseous, his stomach churning, and some distant part of him wonders what it was that made him like this. He had worked so hard for so long after the war to prevent any mission, anything at all, from affecting him so badly ever again; he’d spent a year in Japan putting himself back together. Now he can’t even think about the CIA without incapacitating headaches or breaking into sobs.

 

As his breathing slows and evens Napoleon pushes the files aside, shrugs off his jacket and pulls the covers over him. He’s sore and exhausted and if he wasn’t lying down then something tells him he would be shaking.

 

Sleep comes with blessed ease, unfortunately so do his dreams.

 

He is lying down on his stomach with immense pressure bearing down between his shoulder blades. His chin presses painfully into the ground and it is with extreme effort that he forces his head sideways. What he sees with his new perspective is concrete and shadowed shades of grey, all blending into each other and all indiscriminate. It doesn’t feel like there’s any breath left in his body, all the air crushed from his lungs. 

 

“Trust me when I say-”

 

The voice whispers from everywhere and Napoleon squeezes his eyes shut and tries to shake his head to escape it. 

 

“This is necessary.”

* * *

 

29th September, 1963

 

Consciousness comes to him screaming. 

 

The suit he dresses in is haphazard at best, his tie hanging loose around his neck. He grabs a briefcase and stuffs the files inside and has the receptionist call him a cab. The driver asks where he wants to go and Napoleon can’t think of an answer so simply says whatever comes to him first.

 

“Cowboy?” Illya frowns at him in the doorway. It looks like his hair is still slightly damp from a shower. “What are you doing here?”

 

“I-”  _ Didn’t know where else to go. Can’t sleep and don’t want to be alone. _ “Wanted to go over the file. You have it, don’t you?”

 

“Yes, but-” Illya pauses and gestures him inside. “We said we would meet at two. It is barely after seven.”

 

Napoleon bites back a sigh and reclines on a couch. “Is it really? I hadn’t checked the time.”

 

“Solo…” Illya speaks carefully, still standing near the door. “Is everything okay?”

 

Napoleon decides not to answer that. “I found other files. One’s for a friend who helped me with this, you don’t need to see that. But I also-” He clears his throat, look around the apartment to distract himself. 

 

The space is bland, filled with unremarkable furniture and nondescript pictures on the wall; the kind no one would buy but that no one would actively dislike. It doesn’t feel at all lived in, despite Illya having occupied the apartment for several months.  _ He thinks this is temporary,  _ Napoleon realises, just as Illya speaks again.

 

“You also what?” A beat. “What did you find?”

 

Napoleon takes a breath and reaches into the briefcase. “I found my file. Fifty-five to sixty-five, apparently, all in here.” He slaps the file onto the plain wooden coffee table.

 

Illya’s eyes track the movement, then dart back to Napoleon. He sits in a chair adjacent to Napoleon. “Why are you telling me this?”

 

A small, brief laugh escapes Napoleon. It sounds a little shaky. “I don’t have any loyalty to the CIA.” He waits for the pain, but nothing happens. “I don’t. What you might learn about them from this doesn’t bother me, understand? I don’t care. Even what you might learn about me from this- It doesn’t bother me because, well, I’m sure you already know half of it, but the rest I don’t understand myself. I need a second pair of eyes to look it over.” He shifts, settles his elbows on his knees. “Peril, I don’t trust a lot of people. Even fewer in this business. And last night… It unsettled me. Would you-?”   
  
He finally looks at Illya, who is staring at him and Napoleon thinks he might have been all along. His eyebrows are drawn together, a deep line between them, and he breathes deeply.

 

“I’m not sure I follow your reasoning, but if you want me to, I will look at this,” Illya says, and taps on the file, as if he’s gently reinforcing his promise. His frown fades slightly. “Are you feeling better?”

 

“A little,” Napoleon says, lying, and sure, for once, that Illya sees right through him.

 

“Let me see,” Illya says. He stands again and moves in front of Napoleon, then places his fingers roughly at Napoleon’s cheekbones, careful and methodical. For a moment, he tilts Napoleon’s head back and forth, eyes darting over his face.

 

“What are you doing?” Napoleon asks with a hint of amusement, barely moving his mouth in an effort to not disturb Illya at work.

 

To his surprise, a small smile flickers to life on Illya’s lips. “Not sure,” he admits, keeping Napoleon’s head still. “I would see medics do this to check for concussions, I think it is to do with the eyes. They are moving in same direction so I think you are well.” A second longer, and Illya sits down again.

 

“Thank you, Doctor Kuryakin,” Napoleon says, tone dry, to cover how he feels winded from the sudden lack of contact between them. 

 

He remembers also how he felt at their close proximity in the previous night and comes to a realisation that suddenly feels way overdue.  _ Oh no. _ Tearing his gaze away from Illya’s continuing smile, he glances back with an affirmative to Illya’s offer of tea.

 

As a general rule, Napoleon doesn’t develop feelings for people, particularly not those who share his line of work. Romantic attachments of any kind he tries to skirt around, whether the focus of those attachments are civilian or otherwise. But  _ feelings, _ potentially  _ romantic _ feelings, for an agent of an enemy state? Surely that toes the line of treason.

 

_ This is just lust, _ he tells himself. He’s familiar with lust, it says as much on his dossier. A passing fancy, a crush, a fling, those are all manageable.  _ Yes. _ The more he thinks on it, the more Napoleon is convinced by his idea.  _ It’s not like I picture us moving into the suburbs together. _

 

So when Illya returns and places a mug of tea and the file they acquired on the Mafia in front of him, Napoleon nods in thanks and begins to read and do some work because whatever it is he’s feeling, it’s not important.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is a little short and thats because i think of it as a little interlude between the heist subplot and the continuation of the main mafia mission plot, but i do hope you all enjoyed it!   
> thank you also for the massive support for this story being revived, it was so lovely to return to!

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading! if you enjoyed this please leave me a kudos or a comment to say hi!  
> find me @renearamis on tumblr to give me prompts or chat more or just to follow me! ;)


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